


Baron Your Secrets

by hannahrieu



Series: Untitled Nobility [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Angst, Frottage, John Watson/original character relationship pairing, M/M, Oral Sex, Reichenbach Falls, Rimming, Shameless Smut, yes john has a relationship with a hot spaniard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-16 09:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10568022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrieu/pseuds/hannahrieu
Summary: Sherlock and John adjust to living in London only to have it ripped away by tragedy.Completed work. Will post every few days.





	1. London

The rain came down in fat drops, tapping the tall windows, creating a soothing rhythm.

John sat quietly by lamplight, writing the last of his story for The Strand while the case was still fresh in his memory. He laid down his pen and yawned into his palm.

His draft was complete. He needed to read through it one more time, then he could finally crawl into bed.

Large, gentle hands spread warmly over his shoulders. He leaned back, the tip of his head dipping slightly into Sherlock’s silk pajama top.

“Come to bed.”

John looked up and smiled. He placed a hand on Sherlock's, then rubbed his cheek against his knuckles.

“I’m coming,” he sighed with content, and rose to meet him.

Ten years they had been in London, living in a cozy little flat together with Mrs. Hudson and her delicious biscuits and coffee. John was living a life he thought not possible. He had his practice and he was writing again, and the love of his life, his brilliant, striking Sherlock, second son of an Earl and the most exciting, perplexing, infuriating man he’d ever known, had been by his side the entire time.

After the discovery of John's noble lineage, Sherlock had returned to Edinburgh as he promised to allow his partner to finish his prestigious fellowship. John knew Sherlock was bored out of his mind, but as luck would have it, John was offered a position in London six months later. He took the job, knowing the farther away from the dowager marchioness of Berwick the happier they would be. 

Sherlock saw London as a fresh start. The building his family owned sat right off of Marleybone on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson returned from her trip to France and set up housekeeping. With Sherlock’s blessing she hired a young woman named Marie Turner to help with the daily upkeep. 

The two men lived as if they were married, sharing a bed, but John still worried about appearances. In the beginning, he kept up the pretense of inhabiting the second bedroom, though Sherlock insisted it was not necessary. Mrs. Hudson knew the situation and frankly, didn’t care one bit what they did behind closed doors. Yet, John continued the facade, until one morning Mrs. Hudson finally spoke up.

“Dr. Watson, if I may ask a favor,” she said sweetly as she poured his coffee.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” John had just emerged from said bedroom, dressed, ready for breakfast. 

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop messing up the bedsheets every morning,” she said matter of factly. “It just creates extra work for Marie.”

John was struck dumb. He thought of denying it, but instead just blinked at the older woman.

“You needn’t worry,” she continued. “She will still change and wash the linens weekly. For guests.”

John finally nodded in agreement.

“Very good, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.”

“Sir,” she said, smiling and heading into the bedroom from whence John came. 

John found Sherlock sitting at the breakfast table, his face buried in the paper.

“Told you,” he said without looking up.

This was just a small example of John’s anxiety upon returning to London. Though he easily slid into his new position at the hospital, he remained close to home at all times, often refusing to accompany Sherlock to dinners and parties. For the first six months or so, John lived within a 4 block radius of the flat, heading out only for a walk in the evening or to buy a paper in the morning. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was in his element. His observational skills mixed with his nobleman authority and increasingly good looks opened almost every door to him in the city. Unlike John, who focused solely on his surgical practice, Sherlock infiltrated all sorts of professions and trades, as if trying to find a niche for himself that didn't include being an heir to a earl. 

Sherlock found the situation between he and John fascinating. John seemed happy and well-adjusted. He was still every bit the fulfilling partner he’d been before arriving to London. 

He just couldn’t get him to go anywhere. 

A rare exception occurred one cold morning in March. Sherlock convinced John to accompany him to call on a cousin who was interested in donating money to the surgery. Venturing out into the weather, they quickly determined it was better to take a cab than to catch their death by walking.

As the two men jumped out of the carriage near Piccadilly Square, Sherlock watched his friend’s ruddy red complexion drain away, his body stiffening as they walked down the busy street. 

They were only a few blocks from his cousin’s flat when Sherlock smelled it: the fresh smell of baking bread, cinnamon and apples wafting from the large bakery just a few paces away. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his heart falling to his feet as the memory echoed in his head:

_I’d even hide outside the bakery on Piccadilly and wait for them to throw out the stale bread. ___

____

____

John had his hands buried in his pockets, his head down, face tucked deeply into his coat as he walked. His eyes were downcast, as if he truly wished he were anywhere else. 

“John,” Sherlock called out. 

John slowed and turned. He looked completely miserable.

Sherlock pursed his lips, his blunt chin drawn up in contrition.

“I’m feeling peckish.” 

Sherlock tilted his head toward the bakery. 

John stared at him. They had just eaten breakfast not an hour before.

“My treat?” Sherlock asked, opening the door. 

John hesitated, then stepped inside, more or less just to get out of the cold wind blowing straight through him.

Sherlock ordered two hot buns and two coffees. The two men found a table near the window and ate in silence, until Sherlock pressed his leg discreetly against John's.

John's eyes shot up in curiosity. Sherlock leaned forward.

“This is the London you will know from now on.” 

John’s expression remained stoic, though Sherlock detected a flicker of vulnerability underneath. He placed the coffee cup and bun on the table in front of him. 

“I swear it.” 

John’s expression finally softened. He nodded and solemnly looked out the window. 

John didn’t say much until they returned to Baker Street later that afternoon. Sherlock had managed to secure a small fortune for the surgery. He was about to retire in front of the fire for a smoke when John caught his hand. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for your patience and understanding. For caring about me.”

Sherlock raised the hand to his lips.

“Always,” he replied.

The two men never spoke of it after that day, but the good doctor did find a position with a dispensary in a poor part of London. He volunteered twice a week in six hour shifts, treating the poor, the criminal, the addicts and the orphans. Over time, he seemed to make his peace with London, his volunteer activities balancing his somewhat prestigious position as a royal surgeon at St. Barts hospital. 

This all came none too soon. Sherlock Holmes was narrowing in all his calling - and it was just as outrageous as the man himself.

…..

The whole consultive detective obsession started with a paragraph in the Times about a murder in Notting Hill.

That same afternoon, John found himself standing in the lobby of Scotland Yard, with Sherlock demanding to speak to Detective Inspector Donovan.

The two men seemed to click, and with the help of Sherlock, the Yard had their perpetrator behind bars by suppertime.

Donovan didn’t hesitate to consult Sherlock on every murder case that floated across his desk. Sherlock loved every moment. He'd hurry off, sometimes in the middle of the night. He was having so much fun that John never fussed, though he secretly wished he could come along. 

During one particularly gruesome, complicated case, Sherlock found himself stumped. He returned home in a strop, throwing his Persian slipper around the flat and dumping pipe tobacco all over the rug. 

“What on earth is wrong with you?” asked John. 

“I can’t see it!” he cried, his hands pulling at his slicked back hair, causing it to fall forward and curl over his eyes. “The man was murdered, yet the door was locked from the inside.”

“How was he murdered?” 

“I don’t know!” 

Sherlock paused and looked straight at John. 

“You have to come with me.”

He walked over and shrugged on his long coat, his large hand slicking back his hair before setting his tall hat on his head. He pulled John’s coat off the rack and held it out for him. 

“Why?” asked John, though he’d already grabbed his scarf as Sherlock helped him with his coat. He positioned the bowler on top of his blonde head and waited for an answer. 

“Because, my dear John, you're going to tell me how he was murdered.”

With a twinkle in his eye, he turned and rumbled down the steps, his long coat trailing behind him like a cape. 

That evening was one of the most exciting of John’s life. The man was indeed murdered, evident by a small puncture wound in his side. Sherlock determined the murderer was a household servant or vendor, once they discovered a secret service door behind the bookshelf. 

As the sun came up in the east, John pounded the cobblestoned streets of west London in a dead run in pursuit of their murderer. Sherlock’s long legs gave him the advantage, and he tackled the man to the ground. The perpetrator managed to pop Sherlock once in the mouth, but threw up his hands in defeat when John pushed the barrel of his Browning into the back of his head.

“Don’t even think it,” John growled, out of breath, jamming the gun hard into the man’s skull. 

The man froze and held up his hands even higher in defeat. Sherlock spit blood onto the cobblestone as he cradled his jaw. John reach into his own pocket and handed Sherlock his handkerchief.

“Here, love,” he said. 

Sherlock gratefully accepted the white cloth and held it carefully to his lip. 

“That was bloody insane,” John said pointedly.

Sherlock grinned, then winced in pain. “I suppose. Quite fun too.”

John tried not to giggle, but failed. He pulled the perp to his feet

“Come on, to the Yard we go,” he huffed, as Sherlock followed behind.

Once the murderer (the household’s cook) was handed over to the authorities, the two men happily limped home. They ate breakfast heartily and recounted the story to Mrs. Hudson and Marie with a rare excitement normally reserved for Christmas or an out of town visitor. 

Soon, John became a fixture with all of Sherlock’s cases, the detective finding his doctor an invaluable resource. John began writing about the cases for record keeping purposes only. He'd enjoyed writing since boyhood, but rarely had the time or inclination. Now, he spent evenings writing about The Hound, or The Woman, or his personal favorite, the real Mr. Garrideb. He shared them only with close friends and family, who always heaped praise over the adventures.

It was Mike Stamford who encouraged him to submit his stories to the local paper. John felt utter shock when he received the publishing notice - in fact, they wanted to offer him a column if he had more. 

So he wrote more adventures, and in turn, they made Sherlock famous.

The fame, very unexpected, upset John at first. Sherlock, who had become more beautiful with age, was constantly propositioned. Everyone wanted him; men, women, young, old, rich, poor. He loomed over crime scenes, could see things others couldn't, observing and dissecting and making connections with ease. Women would throw themselves at him, men chatted him up. Sherlock seemed indifferent to the whole phenomenon. 

John grew jealous, and subconsciously began writing in Sherlock’s less attractive qualities into his fictional Holmes detective. The Strand’s Holmes was arrogant and cold, a man who valued logic, not emotion, above all else. He earned a reputation not to be trifled with, as his sharp tongue had won him as many friends as enemies. 

It helped somewhat. As the fervor began to die down, so did the unwanted advances.

So they lived happily for nearly a decade, joined together by their minds as much as their hearts. Though they were very careful in public to appear only as friends, when the doors of 221B locked for the evening, they were as informal and loving as any besotted couple.

 

……….

“Come to bed.”

“I’m coming.”

John stood to move around the chair. He joined arms with Sherlock. They began walking toward the bedroom.

“What are you calling this one?” asked Sherlock, running his fingers through the back of his good doctor’s short, blonde hair. 

“The Six Napoleons.” 

“Not very original.” 

John chuckled. “It doesn’t have to be. My readers come back for the dashing detective in the story.” 

The front door buzzer rang. Both men collectively sighed.

“Who could it be at this late hour?” murmured John.

Sherlock remained silent, but grabbed his smoking jacket and wrapped it tightly around his frame. He grabbed his pipe and began to fix himself a smoke.

Heavy footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs as Detective inspector Donovan appeared in the doorway. The older man was soaked and out of breath, and holding a letter.

He looked straight at Sherlock.

“We found him.”

Sherlock dropped his pipe and stepped forward to take the letter, absorbing its contents quickly and handing it back to Donovan.

“Quite sure?”

Donovan nodded. “Oh, yes, quite.”

“Well then,” Sherlock said turning to John. “Watson, pack your suitcase.” 

John gaped at him. “What? Why?”

“Because,” answered Sherlock. “We’re going on holiday.”

....

The carriage rocked back and forth over the cobblestoned streets. John looked expectantly at Sherlock, waiting for a word of why, because of a letter, they were heading to the shipyard in the middle of the night. Sherlock was, as usual, deep in thought and oblivious to his partner's desire for an explanation. 

John finally resigned his curiosity and leaned his head against the side, hoping to catch a little sleep before they boarded. 

He'd just closed his eyes when Sherlock said softly: 

“My dear John, I'm afraid I've done it again. Forgive me.”

John opened his eyes to see an earnest Sherlock leaning forward, one of his elegant, large hands extended forth.

John reached for him, grasping his palm tightly. 

“Tell me, love, who are we chasing that makes us leave our comfortable home in the wee hours of the morning?” John squeezed his hand. “I was looking forward to bed.”

Sherlock smiled. “As was I.”

He moved across to sit side by side with his doctor, pulling him close.

“I'm sorry.” 

“S’alright. I can't say no to you. My only weakness.” 

Sherlock chuckled. They sat for a moment, listening to the clap of the horses hooves and the squeaking of the carriage’s wheels.

“We found a pattern.”

John furrowed his brow. “What kind of pattern?”

“Of murders.”

Sherlock slid quickly back across and situated himself directly in front of John.

“A criminal mastermind, John,” Sherlock said excitedly. “All of these random acts of violence in all these different countries - they conform to a specific pattern that leads back to one man.”

John shook his head. “Who?”

Sherlock smiled. “His name is James Moriarty, 3rd Baron Femroy.” He pulled out a slip of paper from his jacket. “Donovan and I have laid a trap for his capture.”

Confusion filled the good doctor’s handsome face. “What sort of trap?”

“One he will not be able to resist,” the detective said, leaning back against the carriage’s seat. “He’s the most intelligent criminal I’ve ever encountered . I dare say he is at times more clever than even I. But I know him. And he won’t be able to resist my invitation.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “You’re going to meet with him? Sherlock, no -”

Sherlock threw up an elegantly gloved hand. “It won’t come to that.” His eyes bore into John’s. “But I will need your help.”

John in turn drew up straight and took a deep breath in doing so. He tugged at his jacket and nodded his head just once, resembling the soldier he’d once been.

“Then you shall have it,” he answered, silently hoping to God Sherlock knew what he was getting them into.


	2. Meiringen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John track the baron all across Europe, and end up in a tiny village next to the Reichenbach Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of July 14, sorry to anyone who is reading this today. I made a tiny change on something and it completely jacked up the formatting due to some problem with AO3. Completely maddening. I'm working on it.

Weeks of travel wore both men down, and by the time they reached Meiringen, a little Swiss village nestled in the Alps, they were both ready for a rest. 

The carriage dropped them off at Englischer Hoff, an inn near the the village center, and an older man, presumed to be the innkeeper, greeted them at the door. 

“You must be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” he said jovially. “My name is Peter Steiler. Welcome to Englischer Hoff.”

“Thank you, Mr. Steiler,” said John as he extended his hand. The old man shook it enthusiastically. “Quite beautiful I must say.” He breathed deeply while admiring the snow capped mountains and crisp air. “It's already a pleasure.”

“Please, call me Peter,” the innkeeper replied. His smile widened as he followed John’s gaze to the water. “What you are seeing is the river Aare. You’re suite has a lovely view.”

Peter spoke excellent English, and when Sherlock said as such, the man explained he’d been a waiter in London at the Grand Hotel for years before returning home to his family's inn. 

John kept it to himself that he’d also applied at the same hotel, and had been summarily turned down for the same position when he had returned from Afghanistan.

Peter led them up the stairs and to their room, which was a beautiful, two bedroom suite that, like the old man said, overlooked the river. 

“There’s a lovely restaurant next door that serves dinner until nine,” he said. “And if you are up for a walk, you must visit the falls.”

“The falls?” asked John, intrigued, as he pulled off his long coat and hung it up next to the door.

“Yes, the Reichenbach Falls. An hour hike up, but surely worth it for the spectacle.”

John smiled at the thought. A long brisk walk in nature sounded glorious after their long train ride through Western Europe. 

Peter thanked the duo once again, then disappeared, pulling the door shut behind him. 

John sat down heavily in one of the parlor chairs and pulled off his boots. He sighed and began to undo his vest.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stood at the window, his hands behind his back.

“You’ve barely said a word.”

Sherlock turned, his face drawn up in thought. 

“Would you be opposed to exploring the falls tomorrow on our way to Rosenlaui to spend the evening?” he asked. “I’m supposed to meet a barrister there with pertinent information.”

“Certainly.” John pulled at his cufflinks and removed his shirt. “But for now, I’m washing my face and having a kip. And you should join me.”

Sherlock managed a small smile, but shook his head. 

“I’m afraid I’m feeling rather skittish, John. I need to wander a bit.”

He stepped forward and stroked John’s cheek with his gloved thumb. 

“Alright?” he asked softly. 

“Don’t be long,” John answered, pulling Sherlock’s hand down and squeezing it. “You said we still have a bit of traveling left to do, and you need to rest.”

“Noted, Doctor.”

John smiled then, and no sooner had Sherlock closed the door behind him that John fell into bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.

…...

John awoke with a start. It was dead silent, and the shadows falling over the room signaled the sun had recently set. As he sat up, he startled at a figure standing in front of the window. 

Before he could reach for his Browning in the end table drawer, he had the good sense to call out.

“Sherlock?” he said carefully, his voice gravelly from sleep.

Sherlock turned, and even in the low light, John could see he offered a small smile. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What’s the matter?”

He didn't answer, but walked over to John and laid down on the bed with him. John shivered a little from the chilly air still present on the detective’s clothes. 

“Let’s have a proper dinner,” Sherlock said quietly. His cool hand wrapped around John’s warm one. “Would you like that?”

The two men quickly washed and dressed. The restaurant next door to the Inn was quite a respectable establishment. John was pleased to find white linens covering the tables and a roaring fire near the back. 

“This is quite lovely,” he remarked. 

The host led them them to a table along the wall. Sherlock ordered a bottle of wine, and John sighed in relief at the pleasantness of his surroundings. 

“So,” he said happily. “How was your wander?”

“Brisk. Did me good to work up a sweat.”

“Helped you think, about the baron, yeah?” 

To John's surprise, Sherlock reached across the table and laced his fingers through his own. 

“Actually, I spent some time recalling the first time we met,” he answered tenderly. 

John couldn’t help but look glance quickly around the room. The show of affection was a rarity in public, if not unwise.

Sherlock seemed to realize this, and let go of his hand. 

“Thirteen years ago, this month. I came to Land’s End,” John said softly.

A look of contentment settled on Sherlock’s fine features. 

“When you said you wanted to speak to my father, I knew you were the one who had saved him from death during the war.” Sherlock smiled at the memory. “I had made you into a hero in my mind without knowing it. And there you were, before me, in your worn out suit, your hat and cane -”

John snorted. “Quite a disappointment, I should think.”

“No.” Sherlock replied adamantly. “Quite the contrary.” 

“Right.” 

“No, I mean it. I could see through it. I could see you,” he said adamantly, his voice reflecting reverence and awe. “You were a soldier that came home from war, but no one was there to take care of you, not like we were able to care for my father. You saved his life but you yourself suffered. Greatly. I could see the lines of starvation in your face, how your leg shamed you. You were in such pain.” 

With the last word Sherlock’s voice broke. He took a deep breath to regain some control over himself. 

“I wanted to heal you myself. I never wanted anyone more in my life.”

John was gobsmacked.

“I had no idea,” he managed to say, as heat began building in his chest. 

“You are cherished, John Watson,” he continued. “In the deepest, most private way a man can cherish another. It’s a privilege to share my life with you. I wish I could shout it to the world.”

John looked away then, sentiment overwhelming him. When he could finally speak, he found Sherlock staring at him, his hands folded in front of him as if patiently awaiting his response. 

“Must we sit here?” John whispered breathlessly. “Let’s go back to the room so I can rip your clothes off.”

John watched with delight the flush that began in Sherlock’s chest and crept up his long pale neck into his beautiful, high cheekbones. He watched his lithe chest rise and fall quicker than before, his fingers squeezing into fists as his knuckles whitened. 

Sherlock finally caught his breath enough to respond. 

“Oh, _yes _.”__

__

__

John had no idea the absurd sum of money he laid upon the table, but he and Sherlock left the restaurant like men fleeing for their life. They all but ran back to the inn, careful not to disturb the innkeeper, and slipped into their suite.

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and threw it on the chair nearest to him instead of placing it with usual reverence on the coat hook. He pulled off his tie, undid his vest and dropped them to the floor. 

He moved toward John like a cat, his nimble fingers unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. He was on him within seconds, rumbling into his ear: 

“You’re supposed to be ripping my clothes off.”

John grunted in response, pulling the taller man down by his neck and kissing him, hard. 

Sherlock’s moans were muffled as the good doctor kissed him deeply, the hand not curled tightly around the detective’s neck pulling off his unbuttoned shirt and throwing it to the floor. John guided them both to the bed, and pushed Sherlock down into the mattress as he crawled on top, kissing him and manhandling him, pulling at his trousers and undressing him with practiced ease. Sherlock seemed to short-circuit, engrossed in John’s lips and doing little else to help the process, letting the older man control the pace and the flow. 

For all of Sherlock’s abrasive and dominating behavior in public, at home, Sherlock’s tendency to submit brought them both incredible pleasure. Their private life inside the walls of their bedroom had taken years to perfect, an understanding and deep trust the two had built up over time. The good doctor would take the unflappable consulting detective, the demanding second son of the earl into their bed with care and tenderness, and then proceed to systematically strip him of any responsibility. John learned how to navigate this lovemaking play through trial and error, always with respect and care, and Sherlock’s reaction...well, John never doubted his lover’s devotion to the task. Taking Sherlock apart with his own hands, mouth and cock gave John a high that he had yet to find an equal. But the play in the bedroom happened only when they had the luxury of time to do it properly. Otherwise the two men engaged in a sexual routine that of a normal couple, albeit their appetites were a bit more vigorous than the norm. It was unusual for the two men to go more than a day or two without touching each other in such a way, and with traveling for weeks on end, they were now practically starving for each other. 

John shucked out of his own shirt and pressed his still clothed leg in between Sherlock’s slender, pale thighs.

“I’m going to kiss you all over,” he whispered in his ear, as his fingers threaded through slicked, dark hair.

He closed his fist and lightly pulled, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock’s shiny, slightly swollen lips.

“ _Please _,” Sherlock begged.__

He squirmed underneath John’s weight, pressing and rubbing his naked, full erection against his trousers.

“Be a good lad and raise your leg up for me,” said John quietly.

Sherlock complied, and John hooked an arm underneath the long, graceful limb and pinned it to the bed. John lowered his mouth to the line where his hip met his pelvis, and ghosted his lips along the crease.

He licked and sucked along the tender skin.

“ _John _,” he groaned. He dug his long, slender fingers into John's back.__

He had meant it when he said he was going to kiss Sherlock everywhere. He took his time, lavishing his lips and tongue over his beautiful chest, then kissing and licking each finger as if it were sticks of candy. He massaged his cold feet between his fingers and chuckled every time Sherlock squirmed as he kissed each toe with reverence. He laved at creases in his thighs, and when he turned him over, did the same with his coccyx, spending generous time coaxing his center open with his tongue. 

Sherlock rolled on his back as John lowered his head to take a tight ballock in between his lips. He flicked his tongue as Sherlock keened softly and buried his long, trembling fingers into John’s mussed up hair. 

John held the slender man down as his lips took the other testicle into his mouth, leaving the first wet and glistening. Sherlock spread his long legs even wider and moaned loudly. 

John reached up and placed his palm firmly over Sherlock’s mouth.

“Hush, love,” he whispered. “These walls are thin.”

Sherlock nodded as a throb of pure want pulsed through John's cock at the sight of his blunt fingers edging inside the plump limps. A wet, slick tongue played with the tips, and suddenly it was John moaning aloud.

“Hush, love,” Sherlock whispered teasingly, as he sucked at John's rough knuckles over and over.

John huffed with amusement and yanked off his trousers. He covered Sherlock's body with his own while biting and tugging on Sherlock’s red and puffy mouth.

It had been weeks since he'd made love to him, and he craved it now like a man dying of thirst.

Shelrock’s prolonged arousal had slicked his stomach. John dipped his fingers in the wet and slid his fingers into Sherlock’s cleft. He pressed gently inside him as he lowered his head, swiftly and confidently taking all of Sherlock into his mouth.

As he swallowed him down, John had the foresight to use his free hand again to cover Sherlock's mouth. Deep moans vibrated against his fingers as John sucked him and opened him with skilled, tiny thrusts.

Sherlock rocked his hips and licked teasingly at the smaller man’s palm.

John pulled off of his length with a pop, and rose up to whisper softly into Sherlock’s ear.

“I want you to take my cock into your mouth, and get it good and wet for me.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. John removed his hand from his mouth, noticing the impression of pink fingerprints on the side of Sherlock's pale cheek. 

He watched the younger man open his cupid’s bow obediently, his beautiful face flickering with loss at the same time he pulled his fingers from his center.

John rubbed the tip of his cock against that plump lower lip, before pushing himself into that warm, open mouth.

He gasped at the sight of Sherlock's lips closing around him, his crystal eyes looking up at him through long lashes as he worked his tongue obediently over the large organ.

John gazed longingly back at him, his eyes hooded, darting between his beautiful eyes and the sinful lips stretched wide around his sex. 

With a bit of regret, John pulled himself out of Sherlock's mouth, catching the dripping saliva with his hand. He lowered himself onto Sherlock’s sweat soaked body and with a practiced move, pushed Sherlock’s thighs up as he pressed his cock against his pulsing, loose entrance. 

“ _Oh _,” breathed Sherlock at the touch.__

“Alright love?” John whispered, his mouth ghosting along his pale temple. 

Sherlock nodded, his eyes closed as he relaxed.

John guided himself in, pressing the head of his length slowly into the heat of his lover’s body. The sensation was as thrilling and overwhelming as the first time he'd felt it. Sherock’s fingers fluttered over his biceps and then curled tightly around them. 

John held himself still until his lover’s grip eased.

Full lips found his as he thrusted firmly. Sherlock gasped and moaned quietly, locking wanting glances with John as he writhed, his body consuming the pleasure John was giving.

John eagerly watched the perspiration gather along his lover’s dark hairline, the hair beginning to revert back to it’s wild, curly state from the humidity and exertion.

Only John got to see him this way. No one else.

_No one _.__

Sherlock reached down to stroke himself in rhythm with John’s hips. John buried his nose into his long neck in response and breathed in, his hand holding onto his mess of forming curls.

John didn’t make much sense as he puffed nonsensical sentences into Sherlock’s ear. 

“ _Sherlock _. You’re, oh God, _Sherlock _...”____

Sherlock moaned and writhed for what seemed like eternity, and suddenly he was stiffening and silent and John felt him tremble outside and inside, and the warm wetness that spilt between them immediately caused John to come, _hard_ , deep inside him.

He released with an intensity that he hadn't felt in years, and after he knew he’d spent himself, he still remained stiff as he pulled himself free of the heat. 

Sherlock chuckled at John’s reaction as they both stared at his sex.

“There must be something to this alpine air,” Sherlock joked softly. 

John cupped his cheek tenderly.

“It’s certainly not the most beautiful man on earth in my bed.”

Sherlock blushed at John’s words, the shyness a lovely contrast from the debauchery evident on the rest of his body. He leaned over and kissed John softly, then settled in on his chest.

Both men, exhausted, soon fell asleep.

It was still night when John awoke with Sherlock wrapped around him like a blanket. He was hot and sweating but didn't care: he nestled in and listened to Sherlock breath softly behind him.

Sherlock stirred minutes later, rubbing his hard, naked body against John’s backside. He pulled John’s back to his chest and kissed his bare shoulder. 

“I want to fuck you,” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep. 

John turned his head and nodded, his lips meeting Sherlock’s. They explored each other’s mouths and Sherlock's hands roamed John’s warm body. Sherlock reached over and grabbed the salve from the small table next to the bed.

His fingers warmed the substance until it was good and slick, and John felt himself being opened with care as Sherlock held him tight. His honeyed baritone whispered declarations of his devotion as he went deeper and deeper, leaving kisses all over his cheek, neck and back.

Sherlock manhandled the smaller man so a knee was bent over his own slender thigh. His large palm was generously slicked, and he tugged and twisted and held fast to Johns length as he pressed into him. 

The good doctor’s arm reached up behind him, grabbing a fistful of the younger man’s curls as Sherlock slowly penetrated him. Both men were still half asleep, moving on instinct and lust. John closed his eyes and enjoyed being filled. He pushed his hips forward into Sherlock's slicked hand, then pulled back, his round bottom slipping easily onto Sherlock's cock.

He had no idea how long he was lost in the pleasure of Sherlock as he rocked back and forth. He felt his desire beginning to peak, so he ground himself shamelessly back onto Sherlock's groin.

He circled his hips, over and over and over, trying to bring himself off. Sherlock held onto his waist with both hands, helping him work the feeling, helping him chase his release. After several moments, he found the perfect rhythm, and with Sherlock holding him steady, he pumped his cock quickly and cried out as he came all over his hand and the bedsheets. 

John’s intense orgasm pushed a gasping Sherlock over the edge. He wrapped his strong arms around John’s chest and thrust erratically until he with came with a muffled shout, burying himself in John's shoulder. 

John let him lie there, catching his breath, his fingers reaching back and playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“Come, let’s get cleaned up,” he finally said, pulling Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock groaned, but John led him out of the bedroom to the large water basin. The cold water made them both shiver, but John cleaned Sherlock with care and then washed himself before returning with relief to the warmth of the bed.

John curled himself around Sherlock’s back, and as he’d done a thousand times before, slipped his hand over his lover’s slender thigh and settled in for sleep.

 

\-------

It was mid morning before both men managed to pull themselves out of bed. They ordered room service and ate leisurely, finally dressing appropriately for their walk. John slipped his leather bag across his chest, filled with a set of clothes for the evening’s stay in Rosenlaui.

Peter greeted them as they entered the small lobby.

“I trust you will be stopping by the falls on your hike?” he said, smiling.

“Yes, looking forward to it,” answered John, adjusting his hat. “We’ll be back tomorrow before dark.

The sun was bright as they made their way up the winding dirt path. Their pace was slow and leisurely as they enjoyed the greenery and shimmering lake below. Their activities from the night before had caused a bit of soreness. They would catch the other grimacing at certain points on the trail, especially when it became particularly steep. One would giggle and the other would join in, and then they would stop to rest and take generous swings from their canteen.

After an hour the roar of the falls became deafening. They clambered up one final ridge and found themselves looking straight at the falls. The path curved around large ancient rocks but stopped suddenly, making the only way back to the trail a retrace of one’s steps. 

The mist peppered the two men’s faces as they took in the giant spectacle. The falls themselves were majestic, the water plummeting off the jagged rocks into a swirling, foaming whirlpool below. The mere thought of taking a plummet off the side made John dizzy with terror. 

It was then he heard his name being shouted.

“Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!”

From the trial below a young man, no more than 15 years of age, emerged from the rocky terrain. His face was red and sweaty, and he was quite out of breath. He looked as if he’d ran up the entire hill.

Sherlock spotted his Boswell waving wildly and was at his side within moments.

The young man crawled up the final stretch of the hill and fell forward, his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“I’m Dr. Watson, ” said John, concerned. “Here.”

He handed him the canteen, but the boy refused it.

“Mr. Steiler begs for you to return at once, Dr. Watson,” he said between gasping breaths. “An Englishwoman who just arrived is on her deathbed, and she refuses to see the local physician.”

The young man began coughing. This time, he did not refuse the canteen.

“Mr. Steiler told her that an English doctor was staying at the Inn, and she begged to have you see to her ailment.” The young man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mr. Steiler sent me straight away to fetch you. Will you come?”

John turned to Sherlock. 

“When are you to meet your barrister?”

Sherlock stared pointedly at the young man as he answered. 

“I don’t believe I have the time to go with you.

John moved toward Sherlock, and spoke softly.

“I don’t wish to leave you.” His dark blue eyes scanned Sherlock’s face for any sign of danger.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to the messenger. John felt himself hesitate, then he pulled the satchel from his shoulder and handed it to Sherlock.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Billy, sir.”

“Billy,” John continued. “Stay with Mr. Holmes and see him safely to Rosenlaui.” He laid a gold coin in the young man’s hand. “You’ll get two more once he’s safely arrived.”

John turned to see Sherlock with a bemused look on his face.

“What?” asked John innocently. He leaned in and whispered. “I’ll see you tonight.”

With that, he turned and hurried down the hill as fast as his legs could take him.

John remembered little about his trip back down the trail. The beautiful mountains and greenery he’d adored just an hour ago went unnoticed as he jogged and jumped and hurried. He remembers passing a few other fellow hikers, and he almost ran straight into a tall gentlemen, whom he remembered thinking was rather overdressed for a such a walk. 

He was grateful when he finally reached the Inn. He didn’t deter for one moment and pushed through the main door into the lobby, collapsing a bit onto the counter where Peter was writing in his ledger.

“I’m here, my good man,” he said, gasping. “Pray, tell me she is still with us? 

Peter stood up, a look of confusion contorting his pleasant, wrinkled face.

“I’m afraid I am not sure of who you speak, Dr. Watson."

“The Englishwoman! Where might I find her?

Peter shook his head, bewildered.

“You and Mr. Holmes are the only English here at the Inn.”

“But the boy, Billy, you sent the boy -”

“I sent no such boy, doctor.”

John felt his heartbeat fill his ears as Peter kept talking, but he could no longer hear what he was saying. Dread began in his cheeks and spread down his neck into his chest.

_Sherlock. ___

__

__

John turned and fled without a word up the stairs to their suite. He darted into the bedroom and pulled open the end table drawer.

It was gone.

His bloody gun was _gone_.

 _Sherlock_.

John bolted back downstairs, running smack into Peter in the hallway.

“Mr. Steiler, I need your help,” he said. “I think Mr. Holmes is in danger.”

………..

 

By the time John and Mr. Steiler reached the top of the summit the sun was setting behind the mountains. More villagers were on the path behind them, armed with torches, rope and medical supplies. 

As he took his final step onto the ledge and made his way around the giant rock overlooking the falls, John held his breath and prayed.

Maybe Sherlock would be there, sitting calmly along the rocks, his long fingers drawn up to his lips. 

Maybe his brilliant detective had simply lost track of the time while deep in thought, thinking of ways to track the baron.

It had happened before. So many times before. 

Yet as John turned the corner, he knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He first spied two sets of footprints in the mud….no three...no two…

John couldn’t tell. He threw his hat off and leaned down, trying to see, but the shadows from the limited daylight made it impossible to make out, even with Peter’s torch.

Heavy drops of water landed on John’s blonde, exposed head. He looked up, wondering if the wind had shifted, causing the fall’s trajectory to change. 

_No, he realized. The water was not coming from the falls, but from the sky._

It began to steadily pour, quickly erasing the precious evidence in the mud.

John cursed, growing frantic. He tried to scale the rocks next to the ledge, to see behind the falls, but he stumbled and fell.

He landed hard on his behind, bruised by what he thought was a small stone. When he pulled it from the ground, it was something else entirely.

It was his Browning.

 _The gun was covered in mud, but one sniff and John knew it had been recently fired. He opened the chamber and found it empty._  


“Dear God in Heaven Sherlock,” he muttered to himself. “What have you done.”

“Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson I found something! Over here!”

John forced himself up from the mud and followed the innkeeper to the very edge of the ridge. 

There, hanging over the side of the cliff hooked on a forlorn, green branch of a sapling was his leather satchel.

The grass and plants surrounding the section of the ledge were crushed and ripped.

Evidence of a struggle.

“SHERLOCK!”

His shout was a desperate sound, and shocked the innkeeper so that he nearly dropped his torch.

“SHERLOCK!!”

The roar of the falls easily absorbed his pleas. John dropped to his stomach and leaned as far as he could over the cliff.

“SHERLOCK!”

He forced his mind to calm down as he began to scan every inch of the cliffs for any sign of him. He’d certainly fallen, but if he had landed nearby, by chance, he could have survived. He could be hanging on at this very moment, waiting for John to find him.

_I’ll find you, Sherlock. If it takes my very last breath, I’ll bring you home ___

An idea formed in his mind.

“Peter!” he shouted. “I need your rope!”

The innkeeper obliged, though grudgingly as John tied the rope around his waist. As the villagers arrived, he convinced them all to lower him down the side of the cliff. With a torch in hand, John shimmied down the rock. 

He shouted for Sherlock until his throat was raw. 

He had no idea how long he’d been searching until the men hauled him back up and refused to let him go back down. John shook from the cold, but besides ingesting a few gulps of water, he refused to stop for even a moment.

“Dr. Watson, let's return, to make sure Mr. Holmes didn’t make it to Rosenlaui after all,” Peter said sensibly. 

John shook his head. “No. Peter, if he fell, he’ll freeze to death if we don’t find him. We can’t leave.”

“You’ll catch your death if we don’t get you back down the mountain and into some dry clothes soon,” Peter replied. 

“I’m not going anywhere until we find him.”

“Dr. Watson -”

“Please.”

Terror gripped John’s heart and stole his breath. He dropped to his knees.

“Help me, please,” he begged, clasping his hands in front of his chest.

His voice shook with emotion as he spoke. 

“Help me. He’s here, he has to be here, he’s just lost…”

The villagers, cold and tired, surrounded him, all with looks of sympathy and concern on their kind faces. 

John realized it was the dead of night as he watched their hot breath in the night air. 

When had the rain turned into snow?

Peter’s eyes filled with sorrow as he looked down at the good doctor. 

“Very well,” he said softly. “Go on back, folks, tell the next wave to come on up. And bring Dr. Watson a set of dry clothes.” 

“Thank you,” whispered John through chattering teeth. “Thank you.”

Peter helped the doctor to his feet, and John leaned against the rock to steady himself. His jacket had frozen stiff against his chest. and as he walked, he could only detect heavy numbness in his feet. 

But he was still standing, and he was breathing, so he wandered back over to the ledge, and called out again his beloved’s name.

“I’m coming Sherlock,” he murmured. “Hold on, love. I’m coming.”


	3. Mr. Thomas

For two days John searched for Sherlock without a moment’s rest. A late spring snow had settled on top of the green grass, and under other circumstances, John would have appreciated the striking contrast. But the beauty was lost on him as he pressed on, expanding the search to below the falls and into the hills.

Word arrived from Rosenlaui that no one matching Sherlock’s description had arrived in the village. John instinctively knew this would be the case, knowing Sherlock would have eventually returned to the inn if all was well. 

Peter urged John to accept the inevitable, but he refused to even entertain the idea. 

“You don’t know him, Peter,” John insisted. “He’s brilliant. If anyone could survive this, it’s Sherlock Holmes.”

On the third day, John began to feel weak, and by midday had all but collapsed in exhaustion. The village doctor ordered him to immediate bed rest, but it was too late - a fever developed soon after, and John, as Peter had predicted, fell severely ill. 

It was impossible to tell how long he’d lain in bed. He floated in and out of consciousness, his throat burning and his mind roaring with nightmares. 

In his fevered state, he kept searching for Sherlock. He could see him far away, behind the falls, suffering, bleeding and dying of thirst, but he couldn’t get to him. 

In the dream, he finally collapsed to the ground.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,’ he said.

Sherlock appeared next to him, soaking wet.

“No more searching, my dear John. Rest, now,” he said with a sad smile. 

John cried out in surprise, then sobbed in relief, but he was too exhausted to raise his head. 

Sherlock turned away and disappeared into the falls.

“Wait, stop!” John shouted.“Come back!”

John wept.

……

When John finally awoke, a woman whom he did not recognize was by his side. As he stirred, she gave him some water and then disappeared, only to return with Peter and another tall, dark haired man.

His heart leapt into his throat as he forced his weak eyes to focus. The impeccably dressed, tall gentleman placed his hands behind his back and addressed Peter with a nobleman’s tongue. 

Could it be?

“Sherlock?” John croaked.

He managed to lift his hand from the bed only for a moment. It landed pathetically back down at his side. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

The man came closer, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

“No, Dr. Watson.”

John swallowed and shut his eyes. His heart burned in disappointment.

“M’lord,” he muttered softly.

The Earl shifted in the chair, as if weighing his words. Finally, he leaned in close to John and said kindly:

“Dr. Watson, are you well enough to speak?”

John forced himself to open his eyes. He nodded once.

The Earl continued, drawing in a long breath, as if what he was going to say next was very difficult.

“The Swiss authorities have called off the search for my brother.”

John’s throat produced a tiny involuntary whimper. He shut his eyes tightly, preparing for the worse.

“They believe his body was lost to the falls,” he continued, his voice hollow. “That type of force, it...the waters are freezing and very deep, I’m told.”

John fisted the sheets, fighting to keep his composure. He shook his head furiously.

“M’lord, Sherlock...he…”John managed, his voice strained, barely above a whisper. “He’s brilliant...he…”

Peter stepped forward respectfully, his hands clasped in front of his thighs. 

“Dr. Watson, you have been ill for quite some time. God as my witness, we have done everything in our power to find Mr. Holmes.”

John was helpless against stopping the tears that welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. 

“There’s one more thing.”

He could feel Mycroft looking at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back.

“A body did turn up. I arrived at the village and went immediately to identify the remains, just in case…” The Earl softly swallowed. “The irony in that it was not my brother was that I recognized the dead man immediately. His name was James Moriarty, a Baron. I served with him in Parliament.”

“Had he been shot?”

Peter and Mycroft glanced at each other in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Peter uncomfortably. “How could you possibly know…”

John managed to shake his head and forced back another fresh wave of tears. 

“If you haven’t found his body, then he could still be alive,” he whispered.

The Earl seemed to ponder John’s words for a moment. 

“Dr. Watson,” he began, the stopped. “John,” he began again,a bit more softly, “my respect for you is that of the highest mark, and as I’ve mentioned before, the debt my family owes you is beyond any form of earthly compensation. It is because of these things that I am obliged to be frank, as I am desperate to spare you any false hope. As much as I wish there was a chance, no matter how infinitesimal, there is none. The harsh weather combined with the fierce nature of the falls is no match for any man, even…” The Earl’s eyes became a deep red and moisture filled the rims. His voice was shaky as he continued. “...even for Sherlock.”

John attempted to get up from the bed. It was almost embarrassing how easily Peter was able to keep him from stirring. 

His face raged with desperate emotion as his fingers clawed at the bedsheets.

“You haven’t found his body,” he said again through gritted teeth. 

“John -”

“I just left him there!”

The Earl glanced up at Peter, who quietly took his leave, closing the bedroom door behind him.

“It has been seven days since-” 

When the Earl didn’t continue, John momentarily forgot his own despair and looked up. He was shocked to see Mycroft pull his handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his nose and eyes. The action seemed to compose him a little. 

“I received your telegram and left immediately from Cornwall. I was hoping by the time I arrived this would have all worked itself out. Sherlock would be sitting here, in this room, awaiting my arrival with a smirk, pleased to see that his big brother did care enough to drop everything to come to his aid. I was prepared to never live it down.”

Mycroft soberly looked down at him, his eyes now deep red and swollen.

“It’s not your fault, John.”

John shook his head. 

“I couldn’t find him.”

He glared up at Mycroft in desperation.

“Where did he go?” he demanded angrily. 

Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t know John.”

“M’lord,” John said again, desperately. “Where did he go? Where?”

Mycroft reached forward and laid his hand on the good doctor’s small, shaking shoulder. 

John began to slowly rock against the headboard, his fists buried between his thighs.

“Oh, God ” he moaned softly. “Oh, God.”

His face crumpled. 

The howl from deep inside his soul was undetectable for several seconds before it vibrated against back of his throat. John fought for breath as he keened softly, pressing his fists firmly into the mattress between his knees. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” he cried. “What shall I do?”

Silent tears fell openly down the Earl’s cheeks.

“Indeed, what shall we do?” he whispered. 

………

 

John travelled with Mycroft back to England. The funeral was held soon after in Cornwall. Sherlock’s headstone was placed in the family plot next to generations of noblemen. 

Lady Cornwall looked after John, insisting he stay at Land’s End. He stayed only a few nights, however, as he wished to return to London. Mrs. Hudson had fallen ill at the news of Sherlock’s death, and though her sister, Agnes, had arrived from France to look after her, he still wanted to make sure she was receiving the best care. Irene and Mycroft were secretly relieved when he left, as the thought of losing Mrs. Hudson so soon after Sherlock was almost too much to bear.

At first, the old lovable housekeeper bounded back after John arrived home, looking like a full recovery was in store. However, one evening, after a tremendously cold, damp day, she again developed a terrible fever. 

John nursed her through days and nights of it, but her poor body finally gave out. She drew her final breath not six weeks after Sherlock had disappeared into the falls.

John was relieved beyond words when Agnes took care of all of the arrangements. After the funeral, he helped her pack up her older sister’s belongings.

“My goodness, what are all these?” she asked, pointing to a stack of white cloths in a basket next to Mrs. Hudson’s bed.

John couldn’t help but smile. 

“Those are our handkerchiefs.” He picked one up and showed her the indigo monogram W.S.S.H. Underneath was the other stitched in dark blue the letters J.H.W. “She insisted on the hand stitched monogram. Said it was ‘indecent’ for a gentleman to have anything but in his pocket.”

Agnes smiled thoughtfully. “She thought the world of you two. She called you her “boys”. And that Sherlock. She spoke of him from the day he was born until the day he-”. 

Her eyes immediately shone with regret as she stopped herself. 

John suddenly felt very, very tired, like he could sleep for years and never stir.

Agnes closed the suitcase on the bed. 

“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said. “For being such a kind man to my sister. I know you must be very weary after these two horrifying months.”

She reached forward and kissed him once on each cheek. 

“You have an open invitation to my home in Marseilles.” She squeezed his hand affectionately. “It’s quite beautiful. Quiet. A good place to gather one’s self.”

John wasn’t sure if he could make it up the stairs, let alone to Provence, but he managed a small nod. 

“Thank you, Agnes. I'll consider it.”

…..

John did not go to Marseilles. In fact, he did not go anywhere. 

Months passed. Seasons changed. Summer came and went. Leaves darkened and fell. 

Dr. Watson went on leave from Barts. He worked at the dispensary, treating the poor, the destitute, the underbelly of society. It was the only time he felt a moment’s peace. Well, that and when he’d return to Baker Street to settle in for the evening with a large whiskey and an obnoxiously big cigar. 

The guest bedroom. He’d never spent much time in the room. It was the only place in the whole flat that didn’t remind him in some part of what he’d lost. He’d bought a new chair and had it placed in front of the hearth, but at an angle so he could still look out the window. 

When he’d first arrived home after the fall, he tried to enter their bedroom. He opened the door, and the smell of Sherlock’s lavender sachets made his knees give out. Miss Turner found him doubled over on the hardwood floor. She helped him up and sat him down in the parlour and gave him a good stiff drink. He accepted it gratefully and drank it down in a few gulps. 

“Miss Turner,” he had said shakily. “You should know your employment is secure.”  
He poured himself another drink. “The Earl of Cornwall has informed me that Mr. Holmes wished that I inherit this flat.”

He managed to glance up at Miss Turner, who was staring back at him rather concerned. He had the decency to look apologetic. 

“I have no plans to vacate,” he said finally. 

Marie nodded. “Very good, sir. Excellent news, sir.” 

John finished his drink and stood up. “Thank you,” he said, handing her the empty class. “I should tell you, I won’t be...I am going to be staying in the guest bedroom for a bit. Would you mind, um…” He motioned awkwardly toward the bedroom.

“Of course not sir,” she had answered. “I’ll move your things over immediately.”

John lived the next several months in one small corner of the flat. His routine was simple: Monday thru Thursday, clinic shift, drink, sleep. Friday thru Sunday, sleep, drink, sleep. 

No guests. No letters. No dinners out. 

His mail piled up so high that Miss Turner didn't even bother to bring it to him anymore. She kept it stacked by month on Sherlock's old work table near the window.

He refused all attempts at communication. 

John just sat in his chair, stared out the window and drank.

One Saturday afternoon in October, Miss Turner knocked firmly on Dr. Watson’s bedroom door.

He was well into his third whiskey of the afternoon and had just lit a giant cigar. Needless to say, he was rather perturbed at the interruption.

“Go away, Miss Turner. I don’t need any lunch.”

“You have a visitor, Dr. Watson.”

“Must we go over this again, Miss Turner,” he shouted rudely. “I am not to receive any visitors-...”

A male voice shouted back at him from behind the old bulwark.

“Johnny Hamish Watson, open the door or I'll break it down!”

John dropped his cigar. 

“What the hell,” he mumbled.

He was halfway to the entrance when the door opened, and in bustled a rather cantankerous Mr. Thomas. 

“There you are, bloody ungrateful boy!” he growled. “Is this where you've been keeping yourself hidden away?”

He tapped his foot firmly on the floor as he looked around, a scowl on his usually kind face.

John’s temper flared unchecked, his blood boiling easily from the alcohol in his veins.

“What gives you the right to barge in here,” he seethed. “Get out.”

The middle-aged man chuckled. “Oh no, a team of oxen couldn't pull me away.” He spied the whiskey bottle and snatched it up. He turned abruptly and walked out of the room. 

The doctor’s stupefied expression was so comical that Marie had to turn away for fear of giggling outright.

John chased Mr. Thomas into the parlour. Though in his mid-50’s, the valet was moving with a speed and grace of a much younger man.

“What are you doing!”

Mr. Thomas had opened the window and was unceremoniously draining the contents of the liquor bottle onto the street below. 

John reached for the bottle but he was too late. The last of the whiskey fell away, and Mr. Thomas dropped the empty container next to the growing piles of mail.

The two men stared at each other in silence for a good long time. Miss Turner took the opportunity to close the window, and silently retreated back down to the kitchen. 

John visibly trembled with rage. His chest heaved as he glared at the older man, as if searching for the most vile, piercing words imaginable. 

“You have no right to come into my home and start ordering me around,” he finally growled. 

Mr. Thomas considered him for a moment, then nodded.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

The silence returned. The doctor’s rage began to quell just a bit.

“Why are you here?”

Mr. Thomas pointed at the stack of mail. 

“I’ve written three times,” he said. “I have called on you twice, to be turned away each time. This time, Miss Turner -”

“Miss Turner is under strict orders to not let anyone -”

“John!” shouted Mr. Thomas. “I’m not some bloody stranger!”

The shorter man sucked in a long breath as he closed his eyes. 

“No,” he admitted. “You are not.”

Mr. Thomas’s weathered face immediately softened. 

“Sit down laddie, and have a cuppa,” he ordered. “We need to talk.”

…..

Mr. Thomas did indeed have all sorts of news. He’d been able to retire from service due to top performing investments Sherlock had advised him on a decade before. The former valet had bought a small cottage in Berwick-upon-Tweed and had rented it out during his extended visit to London. 

John admitted that the old servant was a sight for sore eyes. It made him feel a little relieved that someone still cared enough to come searching for him, even after he’d made little effort to stay connected with the world.

“You know the dowager passed, John.”

“Died? When?”

“First week of spring.” 

John nodded his head, not sure what to say. 

“Good riddance,” snarled Mr. Thomas. 

John’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. He had never heard the man utter one negative word about the family in all the years he’d been at Halidon Hall.

“Don’t be surprised, Johnny,” he answered practically. “I never did forgive the old bitch for turning you out the way she did. I’m glad she’s dead.”

Mr. Thomas’s words were so shocking and irreverent that John began to giggle. Soon he was doubled over, holding his stomach, tears streaming down his face. 

At first, Mr. Thomas had the good sense not to encourage him, but the laughter was infectious, and he found himself giggling along with his younger cohort. When they finally managed to get ahold of themselves, Mr. Thomas leaned forward and grasped John tightly by the shoulders. 

“I know you’ve been through hell, laddie. But it’s time to get back to it. And if it has to be me to give you that kick in the arse, then so be it.”

John looked down at where the older man was gripping his shoulders, and he realized with utter sadness that he had forgotten what it felt like to be touched. 

He fell to his knees and leaned in to Mr. Thomas’s lap, gathering both arms around his narrow waist. 

“Mr. Thomas,” he sobbed weakly, his voice muffled as he pressed his face into the man’s stomach. “Help me.”

The old servant feigned calm as he ran his long fingers through John’s shaggy blonde hair. 

“It’s alright, lad,” he whispered. “It’ll be alright


	4. Sant Sadurni d’Anoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a detour on his way to Marseilles to visit an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people have asked me who Felipe resembles, and I imagine him as a young Javier Bardem, maybe not attractive in that super conventional sort of way, but undeniably sexy, charming and fit as hell.

_12 years ago ___

____

__

The two men entered the small village apothecary that sat on the outskirts of Tangier. 

John watched the Spaniard help himself to the contents of the cupboards. It was obvious the man was intimately acquainted with the space. He pulled out a large corkscrew and worked the top of the bottle open with ease, then poured the striking crimson liquid into the two beat up tin cups on the table.

He handed one of the cups to John, and raised the other over his head.

“Salud!” he said, and took a generous sip of the wine.

John raised his cup and took a small sip. The delicious liquid coated his tongue and warmed his throat. He took another sip, closing his eyes to relish the taste.

Felipe watched him with interest.

“This is the ‘64,” he said proudly, pulling out one of the chairs from the table and sitting. He stretched out his long legs and sighed in relief. “There’s only a dozen bottles left of this in all of the world.”

John sat down across from the Spaniard and had another long sip. 

“I don’t know whether to feel honored you're sharing this with me or horrified that it’s being wasted on my amateur palate.”

Felipe laughed. 

“You have good taste, John Watson. It is never wasted on one who appreciates.” 

He stretched his huge arms above his head, and John couldn’t help but notice the expanse of his long, muscled torso, the flat planks of his abdomen that led to a lovely curve of his hip…

John blushed and looked away, feeling guilty.

“Where is this wine from?” he asked, desperate to stop the growing heat in his chest. 

Felipe cradled the bottle in his large, calloused hand. 

“My family’s vineyard.” His expression immediately sobered. “Have you heard of the blight?”

At first John was confused at the question, but then he remembered Lady Irene complaining about the lack of French wine, hearing it had something to do with the failure of the wine crop on the continent. 

“I thought that was only in France.”

Felipe snorted softly. “The fucking bugs aren’t aware of our borders. The blight loves the vine in Sant Sadurni d’Anoia as much as Bordeaux.” His confident demeanor seemed to sag a little. “Every year it eats up more and more of our crop. Last year, we didn’t produce enough to make profit. But that’s not the worst part.” 

He poured another glass for himself and John.

“It’s not about the money, it’s about this, isn’t it,” John said softly, swirling the burgundy liquid around the tin. “Losing this means losing a part of yourself.”

John hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud. When he glanced up, he saw Felipe looking at him, an unreadable expression on his weathered, handsome face.

“Who are you?” he said with a glimmer of admiration. 

John felt himself flush. “Nobody,” he said. “I’m here with a friend. Well, my employer,” he rambled. 

Felipe assessed him with his big, brown eyes. 

“Then why are you here?”

For a moment, John thought he meant Tangier, but it quickly became clear that he meant the apothecary. 

“Oh, here? I was a medic in the army. I needed something to do with my time. My employer, he’s…” 

John didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He found himself desperate to confide in someone, but he didn’t want to betray Sherlock’s confidence. The line between keeping the secret and saving his lover’s life was blurring considerably more each day.

For six long months, he’d watched Sherlock deteriorate physically and emotionally. There were moments in his drunken stupor that he would become unbelievably cruel, his tongue pure acid, spewing threats and insults at John, who tried to ignore it all as he helped him into bed or the bath. Sherlock didn't remember, of course, or at least he never gave any indication that the outbursts were anything but ramblings of a man slowly losing his mind.

John’s anger and resentment had overwhelmed him the evening he’d forced himself on Sherlock. The memory was so painful he could barely bring himself to think on it. He’d spent much more time at the apothecary since then. He was emotionally raw, and he didn’t trust himself anymore. John felt like his insides were rotting away, just like Sherlock’s body, the thin frame a constant reminder of his failure to protect and care for his lover.

“Go on,” said Felipe, breaking the silence. 

John shook his head. “He’s sick. He’s not himself.”

Felipe assessed John for a moment, then sat up, folded his hands carefully on the table. 

“Your reputation is very good in the village,” he said. “I can see you have taken good care of the place. I am not sure you are aware, but I have a medical school in the city center. That is where my presence is most needed.”

“A medical school? That’s...wonderful.”

“I hate to impose, John. Tell me if I am. But I would be most appreciative if you would continue with your practice here for the time being.”

“I’d be honored.” John finished off the wine and wiped his mouth carefully with his fingers. “You’ll stay in the city?” 

Felipe nodded, and John was relieved. He didn’t want to explain the overflowing pile of personal items on the small cot in the back room. John did everything he could to avoid going home now.

Felipe rose from his chair and placed the cork in the wine bottle, handing the remainder to John. John accepted it graciously. 

“Enjoy this. It does me good to see others appreciate my family’s labor.” 

“So you come back here in the winter?” he inquired, genuinely curious at the Spaniard’s lifestyle. 

“For now, yes. I’ve convinced my father to try several new grapes this year, so I’ll go back in a few months.” 

Felipe suddenly smiled, his warm, tender eyes looking at John like he was something rather special. 

John’s heart skittered so wildly in his chest that it hurt.

“You miss it?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Why do you come here then?”

Felipe pondered the question for a moment. 

John wasn’t sure if it was the wine, the heat or the Spaniard’s undeniable magnetism, but he actually felt himself swoon as the taller man’s gaze fell on him. 

“Wanderlust,” Felipe rumbled, his accent rumbling delicately over the “r”. “I believe that is what the English call it?” 

He took a step toward John. John felt his breath catch in his throat. 

“You have it, too, I suspect. You would appreciate my Sant Sadurni d’Anoia. It is beautiful there. Vineyards, olive trees, beautiful women, beautiful men…”

It was then the familiar sound of Jean Pierre’s prattle emanated from outside, breaking the small spell that had temporarily surrounded the two men. John closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, Felipe had opened the door and walked out onto the street.

John didn’t follow. Instead, he let his weak knees buckle as he sat heavily back down at the table, his hand still wrapped around the large, dark wine bottle. 

 

……

 

John awoke as the train pulled into the station in Barcelona. He grabbed his simple baggage and made his way into the station and outside to the city, determined to find a nice, clean room for a good long nap.

Agnes wasn’t expecting him in Marseilles for another two weeks. At Mr. Thomas’s urging, he’d left early, planning to spend some time sightseeing in Paris before traveling south. 

Mr. Thomas’s visit had indeed given John the “kick in the arse” he so desperately needed. He’d stopped the heavy drinking and cigars, and his health had improved significantly with daily walks and regular meals. 

Mr. Thomas was a believer in strict routine. John had been once upon a time, before he began running after criminals with his best friend in the middle of the night. It felt good to fall back into the pattern, however, and with lights out by 10pm every night, John finally stopped dreaming about roaring waters and frozen bodies. 

He even let himself entertain the idea of travel. Mr. Thomas had urged him to write Agnes, and she had responded quickly, saying she’d be delighted if he’d visit. 

He’d pulled out one of Sherlock’s large old maps to plan for the trip, and was surprised to see how close Marseilles was to Barcelona. Ever since his run in with the Spaniard, he’d always wanted to see the vineyards he’d spoken of along the Mediterranean. 

Sant Sadurni d’Anoia.

The name of the village trickled into the unpleasant memory of how he’d left things with Felipe. Though he’d made the right decision to stay with Sherlock, he sometimes wondered what had become of the man, the medical school and the vineyard. 

As soon as John found the city of Paris lonely and overwhelming, he left, switched trains in Toulouse, and instead of heading east, went further south.

He found a small bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Barcelona and slept hard for the rest of the night. The next morning, he ate breakfast with the owner who gave him directions west to the tiny village.

The walk would no doubt take him all day, but he didn’t mind. The landscape was rolling and beautiful, peppered with olive trees and fields of perfectly rowed grapevines. The innkeeper gave him a name and place to stay for the night, and John thanked him and set off down the road. 

Luckily, the old road was a well traveled thoroughfare, and he was offered more than one ride. He arrived in the village mid-afternoon, dusty but not too worn out. He found the recommended inn and rented a room, and after freshening up, set out to explore the tiny town.

The people were friendly but curious of the Englishman wandering about the square. John stuck out like a sore thumb, with his wool trousers and bowler hat. The air was a bit cool and tickled the exposed skin on his cheeks, but the sun was definitely burning the back of his neck. He decided to venture into a tailor’s shop to inquire about some more suitable clothing. 

His broken Spanish didn’t seem to bother the old tailor, who produced a breathable fabric that John found he instantly desired. After measurements and a down payment, John thought he’d promised to return the day after next for his new trousers and shirts. 

He wandered then across the street to a small mercantile-like shop to buy some pencils and paper. He’d actually had the urge to write on the train, and the landscape had inspired him a bit to at least try to write about his adventure.

The old man behind the counter looked up at him behind round, tiny spectacles. 

“Englishman?”

“Si,” answered John, nodding. 

“What brings you to Sant Sadurni d’Anoia?” he asked in perfect English.

“I was told this was a beautiful place I should visit someday, so here I am.”

The old man nodded as if he could care less, and shoved the pencils into a small bag. 

“You don’t happen to know a Dr. Canales? Felipe Canales?”

John didn’t know what compelled him at that moment to ask about the Spaniard. He hadn’t up until that point even planned on looking him up. Besides, the chances of Felipe actually being in Sant Sadurni d’Anoia were very low -

“Si, Dr. Canales. He holds hours Tuesdays and Thursdays.” He pointed with his thumb. “End of town, last house on the left.”

“Alright then,” replied John, a little shocked. “Gracias.”

He walked back into the center of the road, and tucked the paper and pencil into the crook of his arm. 

It was probably the wrong Dr. Canales. 

It was Wednesday anyway. 

He finally wandered back to the inn, where he settled in for the evening. 

……..

John slept poorly despite being desperately worn out from travel. He pushed all thoughts of the Spaniard out of his mind, only to have them creep back in as he tried to relax. 

His stomach was in knots remembering the way he'd ended things with Felipe. He’d only been honest about his feelings for Sherlock. Yet, even after all these years, the thought of Felipe leaving without saying goodbye still made John shrink with shame.

He knew meeting Felipe had changed everything. John had been living deep in denial regarding Sherlock's addiction. He was desperate to hold on to his new found freedom, and Sherlock was determined to keep the tragedy in South Africa buried deep. In the end, both men were responsible for the destruction of their relationship. 

Felipe had given John a kind word, and John had been starving for it. And the way the Spaniard had looked at him- John was immediately drunk on the attention. Tall, broad chested and muscular, he was the opposite of Sherlock’s lithe, pale frame. Felipe desired him. Appreciated him. Felipe made him a surgeon. Felipe wanted to protect him, touch him, to be inside him…

John felt his cock stir at the memory, and he immediately grunted in frustration. He threw back the covers and got out of bed. The water from the basin was cold, and John bathed himself from the forehead to chest, soaking the front of his nightshirt. 

“What am I doing,” he mumbled to himself. “Why am I here?”

He shook his head in disbelief. He looked up into the mirror above the washstand and said to his reflection:

“Watson. We’re here for the view, nothing more. Two days. Two days and we are on our way to Marseilles. Now go to bed.”

He gave himself a reassuring nod in the mirror, about faced, and snuggled back in under the covers. 

Somehow, he managed to drift off to sleep. 

…...

The next morning after breakfast, John tucked his sketchbook and journal in his leather shoulder bag and set off toward the other side of town. He waded through the stands of fresh fruit and vegetables, through the ladies selling herbs and flowers off the back of wagons. He jumped over an enormous pile of donkey dung near what looked like the local feed & seed, until the road became quieter and less populated. 

John continued down the worn path until he came to a small house snuggled against a cluster of ancient trees. The trunks were gnarled over and above the ground like giant snakes, and it looked as if someone had used them as a place to sit more than once. John watched as a mangy looking dog crawled from under the porch and plopped lazily in front of the door. 

It was the last house on the left. John hesitated, then mumbled a swear under his breath and made his way up the porch.

He gingerly stepped over the mutt as he walked into the lobby. A small bell rang above his head, signaling his entrance.

“Yo estaré con usted momentáneamente,” said a female voice from the back. 

John glanced around the small, empty room. He removed his hat as he was greeted by a middle aged woman with a harried look on her small, thin face.

“Si, senor?” 

“Dr. Canales?” inquired John. 

The woman shook her head and answered in Spanish, the translation flying somewhere beyond John’s fine-haired head.

His look of confusion prompted the woman to repeat herself. John finally understood. 

“He’s out?” John said, pointing at the door. 

The woman nodded her head and smiled. She gestured at him, asking his name.

“I’m Dr. Watson uh, Yo soy John Watson,” he said too loudly. He winced at his own voice. “I’m a colleague, a doctora, el medico.”

The woman’s face lit up. “Ah, un medico!”

“I’m at the inn, uh, la posada…”

The bell signaled behind John as the door opened, and in walked a mother with two little boys, who were not happy in being dragged to the doctor. 

“Senora Margoles!” said the woman as she directed the children to the only chairs in the small waiting room. The boys fussed, and Senora Margoles let out a sharp rebuff that stifled the young children into silence. 

John stepped aside and opened the door. 

“I’ll just let you - “ he said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to stop by-”

The youngest boy let out a wail as Senora Margoles pleaded with the woman. 

John smiled and tipped his hat, but no one noticed. The woman was wrangling the second boy as she tried to talk to the mother.

John sighed, gave up and left.

…….

When John returned that evening, he had a message awaiting him at the front desk.

Dr. Watson, 

If your schedule permits, join me for dinner tomorrow night? Aceituna, 8pm.

Felipe Canales

“Well, then,” John mumbled to himself. He folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.

…..

At 7:59 pm the following evening, John Watson walked into the tiny little restaurant in the center of town. 

Aceituna was warm and cozy. The smells wafting from the kitchen made John’s stomach grumble. 

His breath caught in his throat as he caught a glimpse of Felipe sitting at a table along the window. He wore small spectacles and was reading what looked to be a journal by lamplight. A glass of untouched white wine sat in front of him.

John took a deep breath and approached the table.

“Felipe?” 

The Spaniard looked up from his journal and removed his spectacles. HIs large, brown eyes twinkled as he managed a small smile. He rose from his chair and extended his hand. 

“John.”

They shook hands politely, and Felipe gestured to the seat in front of him. 

“Wine?”

“Please.”

Felipe poured him a glass from the canter. 

“You look well.”

“As do you.”

An awkward beat passed.

“So what brings you to Sant Sadurni d’Anoia?” 

John cleared his throat. 

“I'm traveling to Marseilles to visit a friend. She’s not expecting me for another week, so I took a detour.”

John watched the Spaniard fold his hands carefully over his journal. There was a wariness to his movements. It was obvious he was uncomfortable. 

John immediately regretted stopping by.

“So, well, how have you been?” he asked. 

“I've been well,” answered Felipe. “And you?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” lied John.

Another awkward beat.

“I was wondering, well, had wondered from time to time,” stumbled John. “How is the medical school coming along? You’re probably up to what, 20-30 students by now?”

Felipe softly snorted and took a long sip of wine. 

“I shut it down six years ago.”

“No.”

“Oh yes,” Felipe said, his tone clipped. “I lost my funding the same year the imam decided to forbid the local Muslim boys to attend. It was over, like that.” He snapped his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Luckily my village needed a doctor and my father needed his son. It was a soft landing.”

John shook his head. “I know how much that school meant to you. For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry to hear it.”

Felipe half-smiled in response. His expression hinted more at apathy that distress. “And you? Maria gave me your message. Pray tell, are you finally a real surgeon?”

“I am actually,” John said, sipping his wine. “Thanks to you. Been in London for a better part of a decade now.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Felipe said softly. The Spaniard glanced to the side, and for a brief moment, John saw something more behind those eyes than just cool politeness. What it was he saw, however, he didn’t know.

“Well, let’s order, shall we?”

As the dinner progressed, neither man laughed or dared to ask a probing question. Silence often followed answers to questions, and John was relieved when the waiter cleared away their plates. 

It was glaringly obvious that Felipe wanted nothing to do with John Watson. And really, John couldn’t blame him. 

He mentally chided himself for coming to Sant Sadurni d’Anoia at all.

Felipe was up and out of his chair before John could properly pay the check. They shook hands once again. Felipe gave him a half-hearted smile.

“Take care, Dr. Watson.”

“You as well, Dr. Canales.”

John gathered his hat, and walked back to the inn alone.

 

…….

John slept in the next morning, a bit depressed after his meeting with Felipe. Later that afternoon, he wandered for hours along the worn paths around the town before returning to the inn. 

He reclined on the soft, narrow bed of his rented room, picking at a bowl of almonds and writing about his journey from Barcelona to the village. The weather had cooled quickly from an unexpected rainstorm. He got up and pulled down an extra blanket from the wooden shelf next to the wash basin.

A series of loud knocks at the door startled him. He dropped the blanket onto the floor. 

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Senor Watson! Necesitamos usted en el hospital! Vamanos!”

John opened the door to find Maria standing at his door, her face contorted in panic. 

The innkeeper tried to calm her, but she persisted in her pleading. She pulled on John’s arm. 

The innkeeper saw John’s confusion, and stepped in to translate. 

“Dr. Watson, she needs you to come to the hospital. A woman needs your help.”

John glanced up at the innkeeper and back at the woman. 

He pushed her hands away, but nodded. 

“Si, si senora.” 

He grabbed his hat and jacket and followed them out to the street.

…..

A young woman, very pregnant, writhed on the table in the tiny office space. She was covered in sweat, and by the glazed look in her eye, she had been this way for a very long time.

John was grateful the innkeeper had followed them. He was able to interpret her condition for him, and he realized within minutes that the woman needed emergency surgery to save both her and the baby. 

It became clear very quickly that Maria was a trained, capable nurse. Upon hearing the diagnosis, she prepped the room for surgery, helping John wash and gathering the sheets. Within 30 minutes, John was cutting into the young woman, whose name was Pilar, and pulling out her newborn daughter. John had Maria hold the baby as he unwrapped the umbilical cord from around her tiny neck. He then took hold of the infant and held her face down, tapping her little back and smacking her lightly on the behind. 

John exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding as the baby began to cry. He turned the infant over gently and handed her back to Maria, who wrapped her in a blanket. 

John hurriedly worked to close the mother, and was relieved when the bleeding stopped on its own and he was able to close without complications. 

Once he determined mother and child were out of danger, he collapsed on the back porch in exhaustion. He fancied a whisky and large cigar, but pushed the thought out of his mind as he knew Mr. Thomas would not approve. 

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he awoke from a hand gently shaking his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, and was shocked to find Felipe’s big brown eyes staring back at him. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course,” mumbled John. “Just a little tired. Out of practice, I guess.” He yawned and ran his palm over his face. 

Felipe sat awkwardly on the porch. He shook his head in disbelief. 

“What you did for Pilar...”

Felipe’s face suddenly crumpled as he curled his large hand into a fist, pressing it against his lips to stifle a sob. 

The tears escaped his long lashes and dripped down his cheeks. 

“Oi, Felipe…” stuttered John, suddenly unsure how to comfort the man next to him. 

He settled for a hand on a shoulder. He squeezed reassuringly. 

“Pilar will recover, barring any infection, and the baby is healthy.”

Felipe wiped his face with his palms. I had to take wine samples to Barcelona. Maria, she remembered you were at the inn. If you hadn’t been here…”

“But I was, Felipe. It’s alright.” John reached over and patted his knee gently. “Is Pilar a friend, family?”

Felipe nodded. 

“She is my niece. Of my wife’s sister.”

The word “wife” sliced through John like a knife. 

Felipe managed to compose himself. 

“What’s her name?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You don’t know your wife’s name?”

Felipe paused for a moment, then began to chuckle. John dared to join him, easing the tension between the two men. 

“I apologize. I thought you meant Pilar’s baby girl.” He wiped his eyes and drew a long, deep breath. “Penelope.”

Felipe paused.

“She died.”

John's heart stopped. He was suddenly overwhelmed with grief. 

“Felipe, I’m -...” his voice cracked. He took a deep breath.

The two men sat on the porch for a long while, listening to the frogs sing and the locusts whine. The sun had almost set, and the shadows had grown so long they’d finally disappeared.

“Sherlock died. Last year.”

Felipe sat up. 

“I almost died with him,” he whispered. 

Felipe nodded slowly, in understanding. He spoke softly in return.

“My Penelope died while giving birth to our baby girl,” he said, his voice strained with emotion. “My family tells me I dug their graves all by myself, but I can’t remember doing so.” He swallowed another sob. “I don’t remember much.”

John tucked his knees under his chin. He dared look up at Felipe, whose beautiful brown eyes were red and glistening with tears. 

“I tried to drink myself to death. I’ve only recently been well. This trip...I was encouraged to travel. To get away for a while.”

The two men sat in silence again for a long time, until the night settled over them. 

Felipe reached out and suddenly took John's hand, and squeezed it tightly. 

“Stay if you like, John,” he said softly. “My farm is not far, and I have room.”

John’s breath caught in his throat at the gesture. He immediately squeezed back. 

“Yes,” he replied simply. 

…...

The Canales family winery sat up on a hill just west of the village. The old main villa dated back hundreds of years, as did the farm itself. Some of the vines had survived the blight and still produced a small amount of the cherished rioja the family was known for. 

Felipe explained, however, that production had moved mostly to several varieties of white grapes, used to produce a new wine known as “cava”. 

The day was overcast but warm as John walked alongside Felipe through the rows of carefully kept vines. He was only half-listening, as his mind continued to drift back the way Felipe's hand had crushed his the night before, both suddenly bound together in their grief. 

They had ridden by lamplight to the Felipe’s home. John briefly met a sister, an aunt and a nephew before being led to a bedroom on the far left wing of the villa. He’d collapsed into the clean, comfortable bed with only the energy to remove his shoes. 

Now, in the morning light, fully rested and fed, John felt the oppressive weight that had been lying on his chest for the past year slowly dissipate. He began to breath without pain as he smiled and nodded at Felipe’s descriptions.

Felipe’s teenage nephew, Raul, was suddenly at their side. 

“Mama is livid, uncle Felipe,” he said in impressive English. “You forgot to pick up the fish yesterday and her potaje de vigilia is on the verge of ruin!”

Felipe rolled his eyes and sighed. “Well, my nephew, we can’t have that, can we. John, fancy another trip into town?”

“By all means. I need to settle my bill at the inn and visit the tailor.”

Within the hour, John had his belongings new and old stored under his feet as Felipe lifted the fish into the back of the wagon. The village was full of hustle and bustle as large carts full of flowers and candles rode by, with people carrying huge baskets of fruit and vegetables and loading them into wagons. 

“What’s all this?” asked John, as Felipe released the wagon brake and flicked the reigns. 

“Semana Santa, John,” he answered. “Holy Week is upon us. Prepare to eat yourself into oblivion!”

John gaped as a life-sized wooden figurine looking much like Jesus Christ passed by them. 

“Was that the Messiah?”

“Mm, one of them, at least,” said Felipe, barely glancing at statue. “We’ll come in to the village for the Good Friday parade next week. My only advice is to stay out of the kitchen. My sister is the empress of the pots and pans, and her punishment is swift and painful.”

John laughed. The sound seemed foreign to him, because it was genuine. He’d ceased to mourn for several hours. He was almost heady with relief. 

He smiled at Felipe, who was now whistling as he drove the team, the wind blowing carelessly through his dark, silky hair.

Later, after John was stuffed full of bread, cheese and stew, he wandered for a good hour until he found a secluded grove of trees. The air was cool and perfect, and he settled in their shade and promptly fell asleep. 

When he awoke, he found Felipe nearby, a half bottle of rioja sitting next to him. 

John got up and sat down next to him, leaning back against the tree trunk. Felipe passed him the bottle, and John took a generous sip.

“You live in paradise,” he said. “God knows why you’d ever leave.”

“You remember why,” teased Felipe. He gave John a serious, seductive look. “Wanderlust,” he rumbled. 

John felt the ember smoldering in his belly ignite, flames shooting into his thighs, up his chest and into his neck. He could feel himself turning scarlet. He took another swig of the wine. 

“Have you any idea where Ahad ended up?” he said, desperate to change the subject. 

“Mm, last I knew he was still in Tangier, a practicing surgeon.” Felipe smiled. “Thanks to you.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” John gasped. He closed his eyes. “That makes me very happy.”

A comfortable silence passed between them as they listened to the birds chirp. A rabbit and her three kits hopped by, smelling the air and disappearing into the brush.

“John?”

“Mm?”

“You should be aware that I have resolved not to kiss you.”

John’s eyes popped open at the statement. He looked over at Felipe, who was obviously a bit drunk, his warm brown eyes soft and twinkling. 

John couldn't help but lick his lips at the thought. Felipe’s stare clicked down to his mouth. 

“Would it be so bad?”

“If you kissed me?”

Felipe nodded. 

“I’m not the one who resolved not to do so.”

John’s words surprised even himself. 

He felt as if he were floating. 

He held his breath as Felipe leaned forward. 

Soft, warm lips pressed against his own.

John groaned at the contact. His entire body felt as if it were on fire. He dropped the wine bottle and wrapped around Felipe’s thick neck with both hands, deepening the kiss. 

Felipe in turn groaned softly. In one swift movement, he lifted John into his lap. John slid his legs apart and straddled the Spaniard’s thick thighs, all the while still hanging on to the man’s neck, lips still pressing over and over, the passion intensifying with each kiss.

“Oh God,” whispered John, as Felipe held onto his waist. Strong hips up bucked up gently into his behind. John threaded his arms around Felipe’s neck and kissed him hard, his mouth half open as he gasped in time with the rhythmic thrusts.

“Stop, stop,” he begged, as he felt himself close to climax. He forced himself off of Felipe’s lap, and fell ungracefully onto the hard ground. There he lay, catching his breath, and giggled.

Felipe slid down beside him and took his hand. 

“It felt good?”

John smiled. “A little too good.”

Felipe’s smile faded a bit. He held John’s small hand up to his mouth. He kissed the back of it with care. 

“I want you to know, I haven’t….”

John turned as the Spaniard paused in thought. His brow wrinkled in concern.

“What is it?”

Felipe gave him a sheepish smile.

“I’ve not...been with anyone. Since my wife -,” Felipe stuttered.

John’s heart swelled. 

He pulled Felipe’s large hand holding his own up to his lips and grazed the hard, calloused knuckles with his lips. 

“Me either,” he replied softly.

Felipe smiled as he leaned into claim another kiss from John’s lips. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he whispered. 

“Oh?”

“I have resolved to kiss you as much as possible.”

“I hope that works out better than your last resolution,” John teased, pulling the Spaniard on top of him.


	5. The Earl of Cornwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is torn between duty and love.

That evening, John relaxed in the guest bedroom. He opened a bottle of cava and poured himself a generous glass. He settled back in the chair with his notebook in his lap and began to write. 

The bubbles in the wine danced on his tongue. The liquid, bright and refreshing, made him sigh with pleasure at each sip. He laid down his notebook and slumped back into his chair, his legs stretched luxuriously out in front of him.

This is paradise, he thought. Sherlock would love it here.

It was several moments later before John realized he'd thought of Sherlock without a piercing stab to his chest. Instead, the memory of the man had wafted warmly through his mind, mixed with a bit of sadness perhaps, but it hadn't been painful.

He closed his eyes and let the memories of the brilliant, fantastic man wash over him. He smiled as he thought of endless nights by the fire, Sherlock smoking his pipe and rolling his eyes at the newspaper, how he would stretch his long limbs before walking over and kissing John goodnight. And more often than not, the younger man would pull him up, take him to bed and make love to him. 

Felipe had kissed John senseless under the old olive tree, but he'd pulled away before it had went any further. A cold bath had set him right; or so he thought. The wine was doing a number on his heart as well as his head, and he found himself aroused and wanting.

Felipe said he would try to sneak in before midnight. There was no way John was going to last that long.

He lowered his lamp and pulled off his nightshirt. As he slid into bed, he sighed at how good the cool sheets felt against his bare skin. John pushed the covers down to his knees and cupped his half-hard penis gently, slowly rubbing it up and down.

The room was lit only by moonlight streaming in from the high bare window. In the privacy of the bedroom, John arched his back and sighed as he spread his legs wide, fingers sliding between his thighs as he stroked himself. 

He thought of Felipe under the tree. He thought of his hands and of his lips, and of the time he made love to him on the rooftop in Tangier. 

He barely noticed the perspiration gathering along his neck and backside as he stroked and pressed and made himself feel good. His fantasies felt all too real as he teased himself closer and closer to orgasm. He heard himself moan a little, and he forced his mouth to close, breathing heavily through his nose.

His eyes flew open as a large, cool hand swept aside the matted hair on his forehead. Felipe leaned over him and kissed his lips softly.

“Don't stop,” he whispered. “I want to see you.”

John froze, listening to his own breath rattling in his chest as he looked up into Felipe's eyes. Those big brown irises smoldered with want and lust. The man leaned over to kiss him again, this time showing him how much he was affected by John's self-pleasuring.

John moaned into the Spaniard's lips as he began again to stroke himself. Felipe looked down and watched intently. His long fingers pushed John’s sweaty hair away from his forehead as the others traced gentle patterns over his chest and stomach. 

John bucked and groaned as he was touched, his body tightening with impending release.

“Don't,” Felipe whispered. “I want to touch you first.”

He pulled John's hand away as he covered the smaller man’s body with his own. His lips caressed along John's jaw as he held him close. 

“Please, I -,” John begged. 

Felipe shushed him as he picked him up, settling John's knees over his broad shoulders. 

John gasped as Felipe's hard cock slid along his sensitive behind. He twisted his hips as the Spaniard’s fingers pressed below his bollocks, sending steady shocks of pleasure through his own bursting prick. 

John whimpered.

“Oh God, oh dios, John,” gasped Felipe, just a little too loudly. He writhed against him, the slide of his large cock gliding along his sensitive center. “I want...oh!” He groaned as he pressed just the tip of his penis inside the tight, throbbing hole. 

John arched clear off the bed as he came hard, his fingernails piercing the back of Felipe's thick neck. He bucked and writhed until he was completely spent, one of his legs slipping off of the Spaniard’s shoulders.

Felipe licked his lips as he watched his lover orgasm, gripping the one thick leg still draped over his shoulder. Felipe thrusted his hips, his body releasing both inside John and outside, spilling himself up and down the crease of his small, round arse. 

The Spaniard forced himself to remain upright until he found the strength to push John’s leg off of his body. He collapsed onto his back, next to his perspiring and ravished lover. 

“I think you need a lesson on privacy,” panted John. 

Felipe managed a short laugh. 

“I'll never learn.”

…...

 

Holy week passed quickly, and Good Friday finally fell upon the village. The processionals were colorful and beautiful, and multiple reenactments of the crucifixion peppered the town square. In the evening, John attended mass with the Canales family and watched in amazement as each member of the community paid reverence to God, Jesus and the Mother Mary. Afterward, everyone gathered for a celebration in the center of town, complete with food and fireworks. 

Felipe led John away from the crowds as they walked home, the path lit only by moonlight. Leaving the celebration early guaranteed them some much needed time alone. The Spaniard slipped his hand into John's as they meandered along the path, enjoying the cool evening and privacy.

When they reached the farm, Felipe stopped at the barn to check on an ailing horse. John held up the lamp so he could see. 

“She’s healing well,” Felipe said. “A relief.”

John leaned on an old wine barrel next to the stall. 

“I meant to ask, who was the woman on horseback with the giant Jesus?” he asked. “She kept giving me strange looks all evening.”

Felipe snickered. 

“Rosalita. The innkeeper’s daughter. She likes you.”

He chuckled. “She would be disappointed.”

“Oh?”

“I've never been with a woman.”

“No?” Felipe sauntered up beside him, his hand gently brushing up and down his back. “There is little difference, except…”

Long fingers gripped his thin wrist.

“With men you can be a harder, more vigorous.”

Felipe pressed John up against the wall. The stone’s coolness shocked the back of his skin, his shirt thin and soaked with sweat, quite the opposite of the heat radiating from Felipe's broad chest.

Calloused fingers worked their way under his vest and danced along his rib cage. Felipe stared down at him as if challenging him to protest.

The smaller man cupped his palm firmly over the front of the Spaniard’s trousers.

“Hard, you said?” John smirked. He slowly rubbed up and down, feeling the member lengthen under his fingertips. Felipe’s head fell back as he exhaled, giving in to John's deliberate, devilish ministrations. 

John drew up on his tiptoes and whispered in the taller man’s ear:

“I know how to fuck your arse. And I'll fuck you here if you like.”

Felipe's inhale was sharp and quick as he bent down to take John’s mouth in a kiss. John snaked his fist into the back of the Spaniard’s hair and held him, inches from his lips.

Their heated gaze gave way to a sudden, deep moan as John licked and sucked the man's lips. He undid the man's belt and trousers and dropped to his knees.

He stroked and sucked and licked his way around Felipe’s body until he was a writhing mess of trembling muscle and breath. He easily bent the taller man over the barrel and skillfully spread his legs with two quick taps of his foot. 

He laid his own clothed body over the Spaniard’s back, and whispered hotly into his ear. 

“You feel that?”

John ground his hard length into Felipe’s bare backside. The man groaned and pushed back against him. 

John pushed his trousers down and slicked himself. He teased his lover’s entrance with his prick. Felipe moaned and bucked, and John pressed a palm into the small of the man’s back as he pushed in, slowly and gently, penetrating the Spaniard for the first time. 

Felipe gasped and clenched tightly around his length. John calmed him with soothing words and hands. Once relaxed, he carefully pulled out. 

Gently, he gathered Felipe by his waist and turned him around. John kissed him messily, his tongue fucking Felipe's mouth like the blunt fingers sliding in and out of his arse. Felipe writhed against him, his hard prick trapped and leaking all over John's stomach.

Felipe stumbled back into the barrel, but John caught him and picked him up, settling him on top of the wood. He lifted his long, defined legs and cradled them in his arms.  
He gripped his own prick and teased Felipe’s center, relieved to find him relaxed and wanting.

He firmly pushed his large cock into the small, fluttering hole. Felipe pulled him down and kissed him hard as he continued to slide inside, until his pelvis was flush with the back of his lover's thighs.

“Alright?” he whispered as Felipe released his lips.

The Spaniard nodded slowly and grinned. He moved his body, pushing John deeper inside.

John moaned. He pulsed his hips gently as he gazed into Felipe's beautiful eyes.

The taller man wrapped his long legs around John's waist. John leaned in and stroked the Spaniard’s large, leaking prick over and over as he mouthed at the dark hairs on his chest. He took a nipple inbetween his teeth and flicked his tongue teasingly, enjoying Felipe's gasps and squirms.

“John,” he groaned. “Oh dios, oh my god, oh, oh, OH!” He shouted, his legs tightening around John like a python. His whole body shuddered and writhed. John held him close and squeezed his prick as he released, stroking him until the last bit of sweet come left his beautiful body. 

John began to retreat, but Felipe’s legs held him tight.

“Are you close?” He gasped, running a large hand up and down John's chest.

“Oh God yes,” John panted. 

Felipe gripped his lover’s hips and pulled him deep inside, still feeling his muscles pulsing and contracting.

A dozen hard, quick thrusts and John saw rainbows. He orgasmed long and hard, the heat and tightness from Felipe’s body overwhelming him to the point of ecstatic pleasure. 

Felipe held him steady as he came down, kissing him gently on the cheeks and chest while whispering soft words to him in Spanish.

The horse snorted behind him. He turned to see the mare stomping her foot as if in appreciation.

“I forgot we had an audience,” John panted.

Felipe giggled and slid off the barrel. He placed a large hand along John's cheek. 

“I need you to know something,” he said.

John rested his chin on the taller man’s chest.

“Mmm yes?”

”I don't want you to leave for Marseilles,” he said seriously. “I want you to stay here.”

The request, though seemingly out of the blue, felt perfectly natural to John. 

He stood on his toes and kissed Felipe sweetly. 

“Alright,” he murmured.

Felipe's face fell into a wide grin. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

John felt himself lifted into the air as the Spaniard’s laughter filled the barn. 

….

Felipe’s offer had been impossible for him to refuse. He postponed his trip to Marseilles and instead, threw himself into helping Felipe at the hospital. He grew to be a familiar face with the villagers, sometimes paid in olives, tomatoes and chickens for his services. John found his work was made easier by having Maria by his side. He heaped praise on her often. Though she had never been to medical school, her diagnostic abilities were astonishing. She taught him about local herbal remedies and where to find certain plants and fruits.

John spent evenings and weekends learning about grapes and winemaking and working in the fields alongside the Canales family. He became good friends with Raul, whose interest in medicine gave them reason for many conversations. Even Felipe’s sister Francesca grew to like him, as once in awhile, a bread pudding or treacle tart would materialize next to the torrijas. John would thank her profusely and eat second and third helpings, and though she pretended to be put off by his displays of appreciation, the desserts continued to make random appearances.

Each week that passed he grew happier. His appreciation for Felipe deepened into a blissful contentment that he was sure was a type of love. He didn’t feel for the Spaniard as he’d felt for Sherlock, but he didn’t want to either. No, with Felipe, it was different. It wasn’t a romantic love, but it was love. He couldn’t imagine his life without him.

So when the Spaniard uttered those three words one night, after they had made love on the floor of John’s bedroom (they never managed to make it to the bed), John easily said them back to him.

Felipe’s face upon hearing John’s response was incandescent. 

…..

Early one morning, John was walking back to the villa from gathering herbs for Maria when he overheard Felipe arguing with Francesca in the kitchen. 

Most of the Spanish flew right over John’s head, but there were a few words he picked up on immediately. 

Deuda. Granja. 250,000 pesetas. 

John quickly stepped away from the door when Francesca stormed out, cursing at Felipe and throwing her apron on the ground in a huff. 

John hesitated, then boldly stepped into the kitchen.

Felipe sat at the table, his head buried in his hands. 

“Felipe?” John asked quietly. “Alright?”

Felipe quickly looked up and forced a smile. 

“Yes. I’m fine.” He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “You know how Francesca can be.”

“I couldn't help but overhear.”

“It’s not your concern, John.” Felipe stood up and took a sip of his coffee. “Forget what you heard.”

John nodded, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

Later that evening, before bed, John studied the calculations the old villager banker had given him on currency exchange. The Canales family winery was most likely 5,400 pounds in debt, which, according to the property value, plus the business, exceeded the collateral. 

In other words, even with a good harvest, the bank (if Spanish banks were anything like English banks) would likely seize the farm by the end of the year. 

John had the money. He had saved most of his earnings over the years, thanks to the Holmes family’s generosity. He could pay the debt. He earned enough in the village to send home to pay Marie and the London household expenses. He’d be left with a little spending cash. 

It wasn’t a difficult decision. All it took was a telegram, a letter and amonth to process.

John hoped, in time, Felipe would forgive him.

…..

The summer passed quickly. John grew strong and tan from his work in the vineyards. As the harvest finally began, workers from all over the neighboring farms came together. John worked from morning until night in the warm September air alongside the men and boys from other vineyards. They rotated as the grapes ripened, and finally, they began work on the Canales vines. 

John was bringing in his buckets near the old well when Felipe approached him. 

His big brown eyes flashed in frustration as he demanded to have a word in private. 

John’s heart leapt into this throat.

Felipe hovered over John as he sat down his buckets. Anxiousness rolled off of him in waves. 

“Is there something you wish to tell me?”

John dared to glance up. Felipe glared back at him, his eyes shining with what John imagined was betrayal. 

“I just came from the bank,” he said. 

John sighed. 

“I paid it.”

“What do you mean ‘you paid it’?”

John buried his hands in his pockets and dipped his head.

“I mean I paid it off. All of it.”

Felipe shook his head in confusion.

“I told you -!” Felipe lowered his voice as heads from the fields snapped their way. “Where did you get the money?”

“It was my money. I earned it.”

The Spaniard’s face wafted back and forth between disbelief and rage.

“Will you let me explain?” John asked carefully.

He motioned to the table under a massive shade tree. Felipe muttered something in Spanish and begrudgingly took a seat.

John wiped his sweaty face with his elbow, as his hands were dirty. He made himself look directly at Felipe as he spoke.

“Did you know what you did for me in Tangier?”

Felipe glanced up at him, obviously annoyed with the question. 

“What are you talking about?” 

The heat was getting to John even in the shade. He again wiped his brow with his elbow.

“When you first met me, I was a valet. A servant,” he said earnestly. “I was born the son of a vicar. After he died, my mother had to work as a lady's maid for us to survive. I shined boots and emptied chamber pots all day every day from the time I was six until I was sixteen. I'm not complaining. I was educated and fed and it could've been a lot worse. But there was no path to where I am now.”

Felipe sat back a little in his chair, his expression softening a bit.

“My mother died in service. She fell down a set of stairs and broke her back. They laid her on the kitchen table and she suffocated to death right in front of me.” 

The Spaniard closed his eyes, as if wounded. 

“Why are you telling me this?” he said softly.

“Because,” said John. “When you talked to Sherlock about my abilities as a surgeon, when you convinced him what I could do, it changed my life.” He gripped the table. “I worked in Edinburgh. I've been making my way as a royal physician for a decade. Things like that don't happen to people like me.”

“Don't belittle yourself.”

“I'm not,” said John shaking his head. “I'm telling you, where I come from, everyone has their place. I managed to leap above my station. I'm grateful, for my life, for your friendship…”

The Spaniard stood up from the table and leaned forward, placing his large, sunned hands on the wood.

“I can't ask you to do this!” he said vehemently. “It's too much! 

“Then let me be your partner!”

Felipe shut his mouth in surprise. John took the opportunity to jump up from his chair and look Felipe dead in the eye.

“An investment. I'm investing in this place. In your product. In you.”

The noon bell rang and the field workers slowly made their way back to the house. 

Felipe drew in a deep breath and slammed his fist down on the table.

“Don't patronize me, John.”

John grew angry, his eyes narrowing as his stance strengthened.

“I'm not patronizing you. I did it because I care about you and your family and what you do here. This place is special Felipe, can't you see that? I couldn't live with myself if I did nothing.”

The workers were now passing by, all greeting Felipe and nodding at John as they made their way toward the large tables under the olive trees. Francesca was setting out huge bowls of rice and vegetables with rounded loaves of bread and tiny jars of olive oil. The men greeted her warmly as they took a seat and began passing the food.

Felipe watched as his sister smiled and fussed over the workers, pouring wine and basking in the praise the men heaped upon her food. 

He turned back to John.

His big brown eyes glistened with tears. 

“Don't look so grateful,” warned John. “I haven't told you my percentage.”

Felipe suddenly laughed, squeezing the tears from his eyes. They streamed down his cheeks. 

“Either way I cry,” he joked, his voice cracking in relief. 

John reached out and took Felipe’s hand.

“I do love you,” he said seriously. “I want the best for you. You deserve the world, Felipe.”

The look on Felipe's face made John's heart swell to the point of pain. Never had anyone ever looked at him with such love and reverence.

“What is it?” John murmured. 

Felipe shook his head, his eyes glistening. “You are back in my life.” He stepped forward and gripped his shoulder, careful not to embrace him with the workers sitting so close by. “I'm so grateful. And so, so happy.”

“I’m where I belong,” John replied. “I'll never leave you again.”

…..

A year came and went. John convinced Felipe to expand the rioja vine, assuring him the blight mutated and was no longer a threat. They spent winter nights playing games with Raul as Francesca nagged at them for being too rowdy. John convinced the young man to attend medical school in Barcelona, despite his mother’s wishes. He promised to put in a good word for him in Edinburgh if he kept his marks up.

Felipe built a small cabin near the olive grove along the creek, a little one room structure with a huge porch and two chairs. They often went fishing and cooked supper what they caught. With Francesca's help, John now made a decent paella. 

The two men often found themselves drinking too much wine and making love under the olive trees. They had stopped attempting to do so on the boat, since Felipe had caused them to capsize more than once.

John worked mornings in the village hospital five days a week, and spent the afternoons in the vineyard. One day, as he was leaving for lunch, the innkeeper (who also served as the village’s postman) stopped him along the path.

“Letter, Dr. Watson,” he said, placing the beige, expensive envelope in his hand. “Just arrived this morning.”

John thanked him and stared at the letter critically. Mailed from the U.K. He opened it up carefully and noted the thick, creamy stationary. 

Irene? he thought. Or maybe Mr. Thomas had sprung for some fancy paper.

He frowned when he realized it was from Mycroft.

He read it quickly as he walked.

Dear Dr. Watson,

Your presence is required for an urgent matter concerning my family's estate. 

I ask that you return to England immediately. I will pay all travel costs. 

Lands End awaits your arrival.

Yours truly,

The Hon. Earl of Cromwell 

…..

Felipe was in the field when John reached the house. He dropped his medical bag and shucked out of his coat to join him.

“Buenas tardes, mi amor,” Felipe said, as he shoveled the dirt around the post.

John smiled back at him, then scowled as he leaned back against one of the wooden posts. 

“Que?” Felipe panted.

“I received a telegram from The Earl of Cornwall, Sherlock's brother,” he said, holding up the paper. “He is requesting I come immediately to the estate, but he doesn't say why.”

Felipe rested his arms on the shovel to catch his breath. 

“Something to do with the money?” He wiped his glistening forehead with the back of his arm. “Ah, I know. You’re a secret prince and all the riches of England are yours!”

Felipe laughed heartily, reaching for John as he continued to tease him. John smiled, but his lover’s remarks had hit a bit too close to truth. Felipe gently rubbed his knuckles along the blond man’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “When would you leave?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. End of the week, perhaps?”

Felipe’s eyes dimmed as he moved back to grip his shovel.

“That soon.”

“It would just be for a couple of months, until I can get whatever it is straightened out.”

Felipe didn’t answer. He placed his foot on top of the shovel and pushed hard, severing the ground and lifting a heavy pile of dirt, flopping it ungracefully to the side. His pace quickened, the hole growing deeper. 

“Come with me?” asked John.

Felipe paused, and nodded.

“Perhaps,” he said. 

Later that evening, Felipe sat with John's bare feet in his lap while he read Mycroft’s letter over and over. 

His weathered forehead wrinkled in confusion. 

“You truly do not know why you are returning?” he asked. 

“No idea,” John answered, as he poured them each a drink.

“His note is disrespectful,” he murmured.

John chuckled. “Well, that’s Mycroft.”

Felipe mumbled angrily in Spanish as he mindlessly rubbed John's feet. 

“The fucking aristocracy,” he managed, taking a generous sip from his glass. 

“I could write him back and tell him I'm not coming.”

“Please do.”

John grinned.

“Alright,” he said, knocking his knuckles against the chair. “I will. I'll tell him to fuck off.”

Felipe threw the letter to the ground and pulled John into his lap. His palm moved to the good doctor’s cock, tucked inside his tight trousers.

“Oh, God,” sighed John, his head falling back as Felipe firmly moved his hand over his growing erection. “Now I'm definitely not going.”. 

They both tried to make it last (they really did) but the tight clothing and Felipe’s large, skilled hands made John come hard right in his pants. Felipe watched him writhe with pure admiration, and then with ease, turned him facing out on his huge lap. The Spaniard pushed his hips up shamelessly into John’s little arse. He braced himself against the tops of John’s thighs and ground his hard cock in a steady rhythm until he came with a long, languorous shudder.

John leaned back against his chest and ran his fingers through the man’s dark hair. 

“Bloody hell.”. 

He leaned back to slip him a full, tender kiss on the mouth. 

“I'll write him tomorrow.”

Felipe's huge arms wrapped around him.

“Bueno,” he murmured.

 

…….

John did as he said. His letter back to Mycroft was as brief as the one he'd received. He simply conveyed his inability to return to England at the moment, but he hoped to make the trip sometime in the next year.

He received a response within a fortnight.

John was removing a marble from the ear of one of Senora Margolis's boys when Maria walked in with the telegram.

“What now?” he murmured. He tore open the envelope.

It read simply:

PLEASE JOHN. MYCROFT.

…..

Three weeks later

John opened the carriage window and let the air blow through his hair. He sat his hat snugly against his thigh. The trip had been uneventful. He wrote quite a bit on the train to take his mind off how much he missed Felipe. His homesickness was surprisingly intense. John watched as the sun set over the lush green hills of the Cromwell estate. He felt like a new person coming back to an old life he no longer wanted to live. 

As the carriage turned into Land’s End, John placed his hat upon his head and smoothed out his coat. He still felt butterflies in his stomach at the thought of walking through the front door. He wondered if that feeling would ever go away.

Dr. Watson exited the carriage and bid Dimmock a warm hello. He handed off his hat and coat and was led into the library. Dimmock fixed him a cup of tea and told him his lordship would be with him momentarily.

John walked around the room sipping his tea and stretching his legs. He went to the window and looked out. He was thrilled to see young Siger, now fourteen, running along the grounds with Oliver, the tiny family bulldog. 

It was then that the Earl made his entrance.

“Dr. Watson.”

“M’lord,” answered John, bowing slightly. 

“I trust your trip was uneventful.” The Earl poured two very large brandies and handed one to John. 

“Yes, M’lord.”

“Well, I won’t delay the suspense. You have right to know why you are here.” 

John took a sip of the delicious brandy, all the while wondering why, for the first time in his life, he was seeing Mycroft Holmes look very, well...nervous.

“I did not wish to pull you away from your holiday, but a very delicate matter has come to my attention that you will undoubtedly be playing quite a role in unraveling.”

“Alright,” answered John. “How can help?”

Mycroft walked to the window and peered out. His face was grave with concern. 

“Come here, Dr. Watson.”

John inwardly rolled his eyes a little at the bravado, but obeyed. He slid up to Mycroft’s side, and looked out the window.

Siger threw the stick over the little black bulldog’s head. The dog turned and ran hard across the garden.

“Master Siger has grown into a fine young man, m’lord,” said John, pleased to see the boy in good health, but rather confused at why he was being asked to watch the boy play catch with his dog. 

“Yes,” mumbled Mycroft. “But look closer. To the left.”

John inwardly sighed, but he squinted and concentrated on the left side of the garden. He took another slip of delightful brandy as he surveyed the landscape...until suddenly, he felt his entire body turn cold. 

He could feel the glass about to slip out of his hand as he went numb from head to toe. 

Luckily, Mycroft was watching him intently, his eyes about to bore a hole in John’s head. He quickly removed the glass from John’s hand before it shattered onto the floor.

“You see why I had you come,” he said gravely.

John swallowed, his eyes unblinking, staring out the window.

“How,” he finally croaked. “It can’t be. Simply cannot be.”

He turned to the Earl, searching for some indication of a prank, a welcome home joke done in poor taste, something to explain what he was seeing plain as day out that window. 

“It’s not a prank, Dr. Watson.”

John turned and pressed his forehead against the window. He craned his neck and strained his eyes, and yes, Mycroft was right. 

A man, wearing a light pair of trousers and a white shirt, stood on the west grounds of Lands End. He was speaking to young Siger, then turned to throw the stick back across the lawn.

The man was the spitting image Sherlock Holmes.

“My brother has come back to us, Dr. Watson,” said Mycroft. “And I have no idea what to do about it.”

 

There will be one more section called “Don’t Viscount Me Out”. It’ll be another five chapters, and will conclude the story. Ill post it asap.  
I appreciate those of you who continue to read this. I am really really grateful!


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